False Face
by dozefallsdownthestairs
Summary: Arthur Kirkland feels that fate must be set against him when he falls for handsome culinary student Alfred Jones. Arthur doesn't eat because he's not hungry. It's not complicated. Little does he realize, amongst the pink frosting and mashed potatoes, that it's never been about the food. USUK AU anorexic!Arthur and chef!Alfred.
1. Chapter 1

**Hi guys! Here is my old story with some new kicks. If you're new, you can SKIP this bit. For the old, this is a repost with some revamping to be done. Mainly in some of the later chapters, but hopefully you'll enjoy going through the ride with me again.**

 **:p Any love you have in reviews and follows is always much appreciated.**

 **[Original Author's Note and Warning Below]~**

 _Hello all! Here's an idea borne out of trouble._

 _The title of the story comes from a quote in Macbeth which goes, "False face must hide what the false heart doth know."_

 _WARNING: I hesitated to post this, because I realize it's a sensitive issue. However, having recently gone through the whole shit shebang of actually having an eating disorder, this is extremely therapeutic for me. It's as realistic as I can put it. The first chapter just sets up a basis for the story, but it goes deeper from there. Ultimately, I don't mean to offend anyone. I'm not making light of an issue. I've gone through this personally and sort of writing it all down in goofy weeb fashion in the context of my favorite gay countries has helped me figure it out._

 _I hope you enjoy the story. And that if you know anybody who has an eating disorder or if you have had an eating disorder this will encourage you, because in the end it'll get better. :)_

 _For the record, Arthur has anorexia. He's somewhat aware of it, but doesn't want to spend much time thinking of it. Alfred is also the biggest dorkface in history._

* * *

Arthur shifts his bookbag up a little higher on his shoulder, shivering in the cool November air. His French history class troops before him in a curving line as they make their way across the campus. The Seattle drizzle assaults them for not being so green as their surroundings. Arthur thinks it's hardly fair; anything as lively green as the foliage around here is too brilliant to be natural.

Francis complains loudly over the state of his hair. "If I had known we would be going out I would have brought an umbrella." He declares, agonized.

Arthur doesn't hesitate to tell him to shut up. "And why did you even take this class? You're French for crying out loud."

Francis just smiles froggily and replies with a, "It's the best subject the school had to offer."

Arthur trails into incoherent grumblings, determined to ignore him for the rest of the class. If he had his way, he would have dropped out ages ago. As it so happened with his major in World History, this is one of the required courses. He wonders why. It's not like Joan of Arc has ever done him any good.

He's in a particularly bad mood right now, anyway. The class before him is bubbling with excitement, but his stomach is in knots. The teacher announced last week that they would be venturing into the culinary part of the course, since French cuisine is world-renowned and blah, blah, blah. Arthur personally believes any society that reduces itself to eating snails is far below him.

Their professor set up a visit to the adjoining culinary school across the street for some taste testing. It was meant to be a fun, easy A assignment. Arthur was the only one who raised his hand to ask if it was mandatory. Francis had proceeded to ask if he had any fun bones in his body. If their professor hadn't been watching Arthur would have punched him then and there. He didn't take shit from guys like Francis. He was actually in university to learn.

Now, here he is trooping through drizzle, head hanging dismally. Mandatory is such an awful word.

"Arthur, aren't you excited," Shelly chirps, falling into step beside him. "No essays, no thinking, just food!" She giggles brightly, nudging him in the shoulder. "I'm sure it won't taste that bad, you worrywart."

He sniffs, offended. "I like essays and thinking. That's why I came to college."

She rolls her eyes. "We all know you're going to be valedictorian, Art. Take a load off every once in awhile. This is an easy A. Enjoy it. They don't come often." Arthur notices her anxiously clutch a copy of Freud to her chest. She's been carrying that around with her everywhere, must have an exam soon.

"Hey," He says, waving towards her book. "After we try a few things, I can help you study."

Her brow furrows and she laughs guiltily. "I probably shouldn't have even brought it along. I wasn't planning on studying."

"It's no trouble," he insists. Anything to get him out of eating French cuisine.

"Arthur..." She gives him a brilliant smile. Her brown fringe flutters prettily over her chocolate eyes. "You're so sweet."

He shrugs. "I don't mind giving help to beautiful girls."

She blushes, shoving her shoulder into his. "Stop it. You're a giant tease, Arthur Kirkland. And you know it."

Arthur delivers her a toothy smile, shrugging again. They've been friends since first year of college. She should be used to his gentlemanly antics by now.

"Anyway," She continues on, returning his smile playfully. "I know you'd much rather give help to a beautiful boy."

His mouth drops and he scowls as she eludes him by ducking into the culinary arts building. "Shelly!" He groans, pushing after her only to find her lost in a flood of cooking students. If he's the tease, she's definitely something much worse.

"Alright, attention class!" Their professor calls his small group to order. "The chefs here at the institute have already prepared some dishes for us to try. We'll be doing this buffet style, so I guess... ah..."

He turns to a cooking student standing beside him for direction. "Follow me," the boy says, laughing. His wheat gold hair glimmers in the grayish light spilling from the foyer, brilliant blue eyes sparkling excitably. "We're so excited to share some of our food," he continues gleefully as he leads the way. "It's such a privilege to cook for anyone really! Our teacher just showed us some of this coolio French stuff, and I'm super excited for you guys to try it! I want comments and everything! It was my first time acting as head chef! Everyone else were my pretend sous chefs. It was a ton of fun." He practically skips as he talks. His white chef's shirt is stained with flour and brown powder and miscellaneous spills. Arthur thinks he seems like the type to get very messy in the kitchen.

He sends a glance back over his shoulder, spotting Shelly in the back. She is way too good at losing him. He wants to get out of the front, but the crowd behind him is sweeping him forward. He has no choice but to trot along at the heels of his professor and the bubbly cooking student.

"We're almost there," the boy laughs again, sending a bright smile at the professor. "It's a bit of a wonky hallway. Oh, I'm Alfred, by the way." He pauses, then grins. "Chef Alfred, if you will."

The professor smiles warmly back. "So how long have you been attending culinary school?"

"Two years," Alfred nods happily. "This is my final year."

"And what are you planning to do?"

"Oh... I don't know!" Alfred shakes his head with a guilty smile. "Cook, I guess."

Arthur nearly rolls his eyes. What preparation.

"Well, the students and I are so enthusiastic to be here. I've had food from this school before at the open house. It's just as good as any restaurant I've been to."

"Wow, thanks!" Alfred beams. "Everybody works hard, and we just really like cooking. So I'm glad it shows. Here we are!" He waves brightly to a large banquet hall. Several long tables fill the room laden with exquisitely designed plates ready for the taking. The food is like artwork drifting beautifully across each white orb in pastel colors.

Alfred waits till everybody has entered the room, before addressing them again. "There are more traditional dishes to the right. Newer age stuff to the left. We've got tables set up in the back. Please make sure to fill out a survey card. We like to know how we're doing! If you happen to find something gross or icky or if your food's not done, please bring all complaints to me! Thanks so much! Enjoy!"

Arthur falls to the side, crossing his arms over his stomach as he waits for Shelly to come around. His lip curls when he sees she is talking to Francis and remembers bitterly that she's friends with the frog as well. They're both expounding excitably about dishes from Francis' homeland. It isn't long before they both slip into French, and Arthur can't understand what they're saying. He feels abruptly abandoned.

He stands as close behind them as he can, keeping his head down and avoiding the eyes of the chefs who stand behind the tables of food. His eyes slide over the plates. Even he has to admit they look striking, like the plate is the canvas and the food is the paint. He tries his best not to meet any chef's gaze as he passes each collection of plates. His stomach is rolling.

They reach the end of the line and he begins to believe he's made it. Francis and Shelly in front of him are balancing their plates haphazardly as they search for an open table. They spot one to the side and start to head that way. Arthur follows.

"Hey, didn't you want anything?"

Arthur flinches, mentally spewing a sailor's chant of cusswords. He turns on his heel to see Alfred, head chef, looking at him with puppy dog eyes. "I..." Arthur swallows, using his fallback excuse. "I'm not hungry."

"Oh." Alfred wilts a little. "Hey... you're..."

"I'm what?" Arthur says uneasily, though it comes off rude.

Alfred blushes, "Never mind. Sorry. Uh, what was I saying? Food, right. Come on! At least try one." He offers a hopeful smile that Arthur wants to curse to hell and back. He looks so damned expectant, like the world depends on it or something.

"You could just take a bite." His big blue eyes grow a little bit bigger. Shelly's comment from earlier enters Arthur's mind, and he blushes a bit. Beautiful boys, his ass.

Alfred stumbles clumsily over to the table, picking up one of the dishes. "This one's my favorite." He holds it out. "Please just try it."

Arthur glares at the offending pasta dish, shifting from foot to foot. The chef would pick the heaviest food in the place. Unfortunately, his eyes flick back up to Alfred's and he's unsuspectingly lambasted by _the_ puppy dog look of puppy dog looks.

"Alright," he snips, grabbing hold of it. He starts to turn away, but Alfred holds up a fork, eyebrows raised.

"You sure are good at forcing people to eat your food," Arthur mutters, snatching it.

"It's how I got where I am," Alfred shoots back with a victorious grin. "Come on, you act like I'm a bad cook. I made it this far." He gestures himself down, smile softening. He really is handsome. The gray light that sparkles through the windows falls about his tanned face pleasantly. He has blue, blue eyes the color of coastal oceans. When he smiles, his teeth are straight and white. It's only a soft splash of freckles across his nose that give him a more All American baseball look instead of California angel.

Arthur can feel a blush crawling into his cheeks the longer he stares. He gives a noncommittal grunt and walks away with his head down, already coming up with a way to dispose of the food before Alfred notices. He takes a seat next to Shelly who greets him with her mouth full.

"Hey," she swallows, "You actually got something to eat. Beginning to change your mind about French food, eh?"

Arthur scowls. "Please. I'm just being polite."

"Sure you are, Eyebrows," Francis smirks and Arthur clenches his fists. "I saw you talking to Alfred," Francis suddenly continues. "Perhaps you've found something tastier than the food?"

Arthur doesn't exactly know what to say to that, so he rolls his eyes. "I'll thank you to stay out of my love life, frog. The day I ask for your help will be the day hell freezes over."

"Indeed," Francis' lips twitch. "I'll most definitely have to stay out of it."

Francis's odd behavior aside, the conversation carries on normally. As the others slowly work their way through plate after plate, Arthur nonchalantly slides his own into the mix. He feels undeniable relief when another one of his classmates mistakes it for their own and starts to eat it. The knot in his stomach loosens a little bit. Now that he's more relaxed, his gaze flickers furtively back to Alfred.

The dweeb is standing near the window with a plate of his own food, surrounded by a small army of student chefs in white. Arthur can hear what he's saying only occasionally over the din. He appears to be giving them a pep talk, waving his fork goofily in the air. He sticks it in his mouth to pat someone on the back. The other chefs all seem to like him or at least tolerate him. A small Japanese man flanks him quietly and by the way Alfred talks to him, Arthur can guess this is his right hand man in regard to these things.

He has the odd desire that he wants to go to talk to Alfred again. He can't imagine about what, but it's there. It isn't just because the man's attractive. He has a manner about him that draws people. Arthur watches in dismay as several of his classmates start to join in with Alfred's conversation. They're the prettier girls and the more handsome boys, dressed in the latest styles, hair all in perfect place. They know exactly what to say and Alfred banters with them easily, smiling freely.

He can't help but look down at himself and fiddle with his sweater vest. He's only concerned with looking proper and well-dressed. Arthur has always wanted to come across professional. But... Insecurity bubbles up in his stomach, and he wishes he could excuse himself. Damn Francis for getting his mind on things he'd rather not think about.

"Arthur?"

He glances at Shelly, who's smiling teasingly and obviously can't sense his mood. "You want to go over and thank the cute chef for his food? It was so good! I can't even believe it! Don't you think so!"

Arthur nods, "Yeah, it was excellent. Shelly, I think I'm going to-"

"Well, you can't leave yet, Arthur," She insists. "Come on. Let's go thank him and then you can help me study, alright?"

Arthur swallows, but he doesn't get much chance to protest before she's dragging him to his feet and straight into the group.

"Alfred," she says, claiming his attention easily. She's a very pretty girl. She could get anybody's attention.

"What's up?" Alfred grins. "Do you have an opinion on salty versus sweet? The battle of the ages?"

Some of the other chefs roll their eyes, but most laugh. Arthur's classmates laugh, too. Shelly smiles. "Arthur and I just wanted to thank you, well, all of you for the great food. You're all going to have to contact me about where you're working, cuz it's a place I want to eat."

There is general laughter again. Arthur turns to sidle out, but a wall of people has formed behind him.

"Arthur?"

He turns back and then blushes when he realizes it's Alfred that has said his name. "Is that your name?" Alfred asks, smiling. "So you've got an oldies name like me, huh? I'm not the only one."

Everyone is listening to their conversation, because everybody listens to Alfred. Arthur balls his hands into fists, face going redder. "Th-there's nothing wrong with my name, imbecile."

"Oh!" Alfred's eyes widen. "No, that's not what I meant. I like it. I was just... comparing them?" Alfred blushes a bit, and Arthur hears a couple whispers spoken against himself. People are angry at him for insulting Alfred.

Arthur rolls his eyes. "Whatever. If you think we're the only ones with old names in here, then you should ask around more. I thought you were a socialite. Francis is an old name."

Alfred looks sideways at Francis who he has already met by this point. He looks back at Arthur shaking his head. "No. Francis is a girl's name."

A couple of the guys whoop and someone calls out, "Shots fired!" Francis begins to mutter about how uncouth they all are, though he doesn't seem angry.

Alfred offers Arthur a devilish grin. "At least we have boy names."

Arthur nearly smiles at him. An insult to Francis is like a compliment to Arthur any day. But he forces it back and snaps sarcastically. "Oh at least that."

Alfred doesn't get insulted, though. He laughs. The others shift uncomfortably at Arthur's volatile attitude. Shelly just looks embarrassed. "You're something," he says once he stops laughing. "Look, we'll have to hang out some time." He pulls out a scrap of paper and pushing through people bends to use one of the tables so he can write on it.

"There." Alfred holds the paper proudly out to Arthur. In front of everybody.

Arthur can feel the heat burning the back of his neck.

He can't bring himself to reject it, because... A boy as cute as Alfred is actually giving him a number. But at the same time, his stubborn pride makes him feel that he can't accept it.

"Oh please," Shelly bursts out and snatches the number from Alfred's fingers suddenly. "Give it to a beautiful girl won't you?"

The guys start to caterwaul again. Though the attention is off of him, Arthur feels an overwhelming sense of disappointment. He wanders back to his bookbag, but the sudden urge to escape has left him. Instead, a heavy feeling roots him to his spot. The professor informs them that they are free to leave. Seeing no other option, Arthur starts to walk out, but before he does Alfred catches him at the corner and pulls him back.

"What are you-"

"Here." Alfred presses a piece of paper into his palm. "That wasn't some kind of joke." He pulls back then to inspect Arthur, who tries his best to remain unruffled. Alfred's eyes are filled with some odd curiosity, like he's expecting something. Arthur doesn't know what to say. "Anyway," Alfred suddenly smiles. "You need to try my food sometime, right? Don't think I didn't notice that you forgot to fill out a survey card."

An overwhelming nausea hits Arthur like a ton of bricks and he stumbles.

"Whoa," Alfred catches him by the shoulders. "Arthur, are you alright?"

"I'm..." Arthur swallows, feeling his dry throat and coughing. "I'm f-"

"Kiku can you get Arthur a water bottle?" Alfred calls back to someone behind him. "Hey, why don't you sit down for a minute? You don't look alright."

Arthur doesn't protest as Alfred leads him over to a table and forces him into a chair. He lays his cheek down on the table cloth, waiting for the nausea to fade like it always does. He feels Alfred pat him on the back.

"You alright?"

Embarrassment floods through him, but he doesn't move. "I'm fine."

"You sure?" Suddenly, Alfred's clear blue eyes are at his eye level, blinking their concern. Arthur turns his head the other direction, blushing.

"Fine. I said I'm fine."

"Okay." Alfred pats his back again. "Don't get up until you feel better."

Alfred continues to pat his back, and Arthur thinks wryly that maybe he'll never feel better. Kiku returns with a water bottle, though. Arthur swallows roughly. He doesn't really feel like drinking. Instead, he says, "I'm fine. I think I'll go." He starts to stand up, but he can feel Alfred and Kiku looking at him skeptically.

"I'm fine." He says forcibly, letting his irritation come into his voice. "Just stayed out late last night. I need a nap." His green eyes flick up nervously to meet theirs, wondering if they'll catch him lying.

"You should get some sleep, then." Kiku says quietly. Alfred says nothing.

"Yes, well, that's what I was on my way to do." Arthur coughs again, taking the water bottle with him to make them feel better. He gets to the door.

"Bye Arthur."

He looks back to see Alfred waving.

"Bye." He whispers, blushing again.


	2. Chapter 2

**And here's chapter two for some subtle changes. And for you new folks: Shelly is Seychelles, Jett is Australia, Mathias is Denmark, Basilio is the Roman Empire.**

 **Also, (shameless plug), if you're into this story, don't be afraid to check out my new stuff. :P I love hearing from you guys.**

 **[Original Author's note]**

 _Hey guys! Thanks so much for all the support so far! It's neat that so many people are interested in this, at least more than I expected, haha. Once again, this chapter is pretty docile. I'll warn you if it's going to be graphic as it might be later on. Right now, we get to establish the wonderfully ironic relationship that Artie and Alfie develop. :)_

* * *

Arthur sits cross-legged on his dorm bed. His roommate has gone to get something for dinner, so he's alone. A plethora of books on different subjects is spread out around him for his perusal. His unusual devotion to studies has gotten him ahead of the syllabus and now he has some free time to read whatever he wants.

Usually, he enjoys the time where he can fill his mind with whatever comes to his fancy. The library is vast and full of new stories. He enjoys fiction when he has the time for it. But today, he holds the crumpled piece of paper given him by Alfred, staring with some intensity at the ten numbers and sloppy smiley face.

"CALL ME." is written in all caps. Though Arthur isn't completely sure, he guesses that Alfred means it in more than a 'let's hang out and be friends way'. He enjoys the fluttery feeling in his stomach as he considers it.

Imagine someone like Alfred going out with him. Arthur isn't ashamed of being gay by any means, but it's near impossible to imagine himself with Alfred. Despite his pact in secondary to get out more, he hasn't changed much in university. He has his friends and they do things together occasionally. His home base remains the library on Friday and Saturday nights.

It's just sort of who he is.

He pulls his mobile from his pocket, feeling his hesitation weigh on him like a boulder. What is he even supposed to say to Alfred?

"Hi, this is Arthur... The French history student who refused to eat your food the other day and potentially offended you beyond reconciliation? Oh you don't remember giving this number? Sorry, I'll..."

Arthur groans. It's a bad idea, anyhow. A would-be chef like Alfred is bound to be making disgusting, calorie-ridden food all the time. Wouldn't it be kind of an affront for the person Alfred's seeing to never eat it?

Nonetheless, Arthur gathers his courage and dials the number. It's Alfred who told him to call, so Alfred can be the one to do all the talking. He shouldn't have to stress over something like this.

The phone rings and rings. Arthur thinks angrily that the imbecile isn't even going to pick up. What a twat. But on the final ring before the message tone, there's a click. Arthur hears the sound of what must be a very crowded, loud room.

"Hello?" Alfred is practically shouting. "Who is this?"

Arthur scowls, "Who do you think it is?"

"Arthur?" Alfred's tone lifts. "Oh hey, you called me back! Hold on. I'm going to find a less noisy place."

The background noise fades. Arthur hears Alfred telling people that he'll be back in a minute.

"If it's a bad time, I can-" Arthur starts.

Alfred interrupts him with a laugh. "No, it's just dinner time. I was eating out with some friends. To be honest, it was getting a little too crazy in there." He laughs again, somehow managing to convey warmth over the phone lines. Arthur thinks that if this chef thing falls through for him, he'd make a good customer service clerk.

"So..." Alfred prompts after some silence. "You want to meet up some time?"

"If that's what you want," Arthur says indifferently. "You were the one who told me to call you."

"Yes, but _you_ called." Alfred chuckles. "Actually... are you busy right now? We just got here. They're ordering their food. Think you could come down and join us?"

Arthur's stomach clenches. "I already ate."

"Oh." He hears Alfred's disappointment and hates how it makes him feel. "Okay, then, some other time. I'll have to introduce you to my friends. That night will be _so_ fun." Alfred laughs and Arthur wonders what kind of person Alfred thinks he is. He's not exactly the life of the party.

"Anyway," Alfred continues. "Think you could meet with me tomorrow? Maybe around six? We could go out to eat, loiter in the woods, that sort of thing."

Arthur swallows. Why does everything have to be about going out to eat? "No, I can't. I have a class."

"On Sunday?" Alfred asks incredulously.

"It was the only time it was offered," Arthur shoots back without missing a beat.

"Okay... what about lunch?"

"Meeting with a professor."

"Breakfast, then?"

"Study group usually goes out for pancakes."

"Damn," Alfred laughs. "How about three in the afternoon?"

Arthur hesitates. There aren't any meals associated with three in the afternoon, are there?

"How about 3:13 in the afternoon?" Alfred presses. "You can't have anything scheduled for such a random time."  
Arthur shakes his head, allowing himself a small grin. "No, I suppose I don't. What would you like to do at 3:13, Alfred?"

"Movie?"

"At 3:13?"

"We can be a little late," Alfred laughs. "What do you say?"

"What movie?"

"Uh, jee, what's on? I don't even know. How about the new Lego movie?"

Arthur snorts. "You want to spend eleven dollars to see that? Are you secretly a 12 year old? Now would be a good time to inform me."

"Well, actually..." Alfred lowers his voice, teasing. "I mean I just didn't want you to judge me. I'm a bit tall for my age." He laughs again. "As it so happens, I'd be willing to pay twenty-two dollars to see it."

Arthur blinks before he gets it and blushes dark red. "I can pay for my own ticket, thank you very much."

"But going Dutch is so unromantic," Alfred pouts. If Arthur has any doubts over the nature of their outing, they've dissipated now. This is a date.

His heart thuds a little faster. "How about I give you the money beforehand, and then you can feel like you're paying?"

"Hey," Alfred says. "I'm not actually twelve, so you know. Let me pay."

"Why? I'm saving you money and giving you the satisfaction of feeling like you're paying."

Alfred snorts. "I don't want 'the satisfaction'. I actually want to pay for you."

Arthur shakes his head in exasperation. "Why?"

"I'm a chronic spendthrift," Alfred says in such a serious tone that Arthur almost believes him. "When I see a really hot guy, I just can't control myself."

Arthur's face burns, "Oh shut up, you dunce. I'm paying for myself. I'll meet you at the theater tomorrow. Goodbye."

"Goodbye!" Alfred shouts before Arthur hangs up.

Arthur rolls his eyes, rubbing at his burning cheeks. An overwhelming sense of warmth floods through him. This will be fun. He has nothing to do on Sunday, anyway. Alfred wants to take him out.

Arthur can't suppress his smile, so he just decides to wear it.

0 0 0

The next day he stands anxiously shifting on the balls of his feet in the theater foyer. He has arrived ten minutes early and his heart is in his mouth.

Arthur smoothes at his sweater, trying to calm himself. He knows that he's probably overdressed, but he always dresses this way and knows it would only make him more uncomfortable to dress down. He checks his phone for the time, absentmindedly patting down his hair. 3:10. Alfred should be here soon.

As the minutes trundle by, Arthur wonders if perhaps Alfred will stand him up. It's happened to him before. He threads his fingers together, feeling light-headed. The decadent smell of buttered popcorn isn't helping. A child runs by him, accidentally skimming their sticky fingers across his khakis. Arthur cusses softly at the stain, wishing parents could keep their spawn under control.

3:13. It's 3:13. Where's Alfred? He must have decided not to come.

Arthur checks his phone again. Dear goodness, he can't believe that-

"Surprise!" Alfred jumps out behind him, grabbing him by his shoulders. He had been hiding in the small bathroom alcove.

Arthur flinches and drops his phone on the ground, where the back comes flying off. "Fuck." He says before he can censor himself. A conservative-looking woman gives him a dirty look.

"Whoops." Alfred jumps to pick it up. "Probably should have waited till you put that away." He hands it back with a guilty smile. "If it's cracked, I can pay for a new one."

"It's fine." Arthur scowls, shoving it into his pocket without even looking. His stomach is tight with nerves, and he can't bring himself to worry about it.

Alfred laughs, scratching the back of his neck. No longer dressed in his chef's gear, Alfred has a certain inherent sloppiness about him. This doesn't turn Arthur off. Surprisingly. It's so natural that it almost makes him feel relaxed. Almost.

Alfred's messy golden hair has streaks from where he attempted to run the comb through it. His glasses are a little crooked, and he's wearing a Sonic the Hedgehog t-shirt under a nice dinner jacket. His jeans are a little big for him, and he pulls them up when they start to sag. "Gee, I'm real sorry about that," he continues, "I was only trying to scare you. I've got our tickets though." He plunges his hand into his pocket triumphantly and produces two beat up pieces of paper.

Arthur blinks. "How did..."

"Fandango." Alfred winks. "Guess you're not paying after all."

"Damn you." Arthur breathes, causing Alfred to laugh again.

"You look great," Alfred remarks as they start to amble towards the theater. "The green in your shirt, it makes your eyes really pop. In fact..." Alfred suddenly grabs him by his shoulders, steering him around to a certain position. He cocks his head, thoughtfully, biting his lower lip.

Arthur who is still trying to hide his blush from the compliment stammers "Wh-what are you doing?"

"Right... there." Alfred beams, then waves behind Arthur. Arthur turns to see the hooded forests by the parking lot outside.

"What?"

"Your eyes match the trees," Alfred grins. "It's really fucking cool."

Arthur's face reddens even more. "Are you quite done wasting time? We're missing the movie."

Alfred shrugs, pulling on a pout like second nature. "But I can't _see_ you in the movie theater. And we have to get popcorn. Come on."

He grabs Arthur by the hand and tows him over to the counter. Arthur stiffens, glancing at his hand in Alfred's. "Do you want a slushie?" Alfred asks. "We can both get one and then share the popcorn. I think that's a number 10."

"No, that's ridiculously expensive." Arthur looks around. "I actually have to use the toilet. Just get something for yourself and I ah... might have some of yours."

"Okay. Hey wait!" Alfred calls him back before he can get away. "What kind of candy do you like?"

"I don't want any," Arthur brushes it off.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, positive."  
"Alright, then. Theater six, front row, don't forget." Alfred winks, causing Arthur to roll his eyes again. He refuses to admit that it's even slightly sexy.

Once he reaches the toilet, he stands in a stall until his heartbeat slows. Alfred isn't going to _make_ him eat anything. He's worried about something ridiculous.

When he is calmer, he wanders down to theater six. Alfred waves, brilliant eyes glimmering. The movie started at 3:15, so they've missed the previews. Once Arthur sits down, Alfred offers him the large popcorn bucket. He shakes his head. Alfred thankfully drops it. A slight quizzical look pulls at his features, but he quickly forgets in favor of shoving popcorn into his own mouth.

The movie is kiddish, but not horrible. Arthur was never one for Legos, but Alfred looks like the type who used to build whole cities out of them as a kid. As it goes on, Alfred shifts closer and closer to Arthur. Alfred's leg presses against his in the dark. This is the part Arthur likes about movie dates.

Alfred fakes a yawn and then swings an arm around his shoulders, smiling widely at him in the dark. Arthur has too much dignity to allow himself to 'snuggle up', but he can't deny that he's sorely tempted. He rolls his eyes at Alfred's grin and returns his attention to the screen. Alfred's fingers brush up and down against his shoulder, sending shivers down his spine so much so that he can't even focus on what's happening anymore.

When the movie ends, Alfred jumps up perkily. "That was good, right?"

"As good as a child's film can be," Arthur answers, shaking his head. He forces back a yawn. Movies always make him sleepy, sitting in the dark for so long. He starts to stand up and black blotches zoom about his vision so that he can't see.

"Whoa, there, Art." He feels Alfred's suddenly strong hand grasping his arm. "You're not going to fall, are you?"

"I'm fine, imbecile." Arthur snarls, but he has to wait a moment for the splotches to fade. When they do, he sees Alfred's worried face. "I just stood up too fast. What are you worried about? It's called vertigo." He pushes past Alfred to get out, still feeling incredibly light-headed.

Alfred waits till they get outside before he grabs Arthur by the arm. Arthur can see that his blue eyes look conflicted like he wants to ask something. His own heart leaps into his mouth, and he feels an irrational fear run through him. He pleads silently that Alfred won't say anything.

Alfred finally cracks a worn smile. "Jeez, Art, you look like I'm about to murder you or something." He slowly lets go of Arthur's arm, reaching instead to brush a couple strands of hair from Arthur's eyes. "I had fun." He says softly. "Your commentary is by far the meanest movie commentary I've ever heard."

"I'm just speaking the truth," Arthur sniffs weakly.

Alfred grins. "I like it. I do." He hesitates for just a second, before pulling Arthur into a hug. The sun is just setting behind them and it's starting to get cold. They're shaded by the forest trees' looming shadows off to the edge of the old brick movie theater. Arthur is shocked by how warm Alfred is. He radiates heat like a furnace. Arthur's sweater is failing at keeping him warm, but with Alfred here it doesn't matter.

"I'm glad you called me," Alfred murmurs it into the top of his head, rubbing his hand absently back and forth across Arthur's back. "I think you're really cute. You know... this sounds lame, but when I was talking to the professor and you were walking by us, I kept trying to catch your eye. I sorta started bragging on myself being head chef for the day and stuff. I wanted you to notice me."

Arthur snorts. "You poor idiot."

Alfred chuckles. "It worked, didn't it?" He gives a happy sigh and falls silent. "You're going to have to tell me everything about you now."

"Everything?" Arthur says warily.

"Of course." Alfred pulls back just enough to look at him. "I know you're in a French history class, that you hate French people, and that you hate French food. You're an utter enigma to me, Arthur."

Arthur snorts again, but allows a small smile. "Well, in that case, I don't know very much about you, either."

"That's gunna have to change," Alfred's pulls him close again. "Let's see my favorite food is cheese alfredo pizza with the noodles on top and the white sauce instead of marinara."

Arthur crinkles his nose. "That sounds disgusting. Aren't you a chef?"

Alfred shrugs. "Can't beat the classics. Anyway, I'm working on developing a new recipe. It's really good."

Arthur is silent, listening to Alfred's breathing. "Do you create... your own recipes a lot?"

"Oh yeah. It's my favorite thing to do ever. I feel like I can really express myself with the pallet." Alfred smiles. "I mean, there's the actual presentation of the food which says something about it. But then there's the part where you close your eyes and you really feel the flavors, you know? Each flavor has a different emotion to it. It's like..." He laughs. "It's like experiencing artwork, even more so than writing or painting. Those create a sensation. Food, well, it is the sensation."

Arthur listens quietly. "You're very passionate about it." He murmurs.

"There was never anything else I wanted to do," Alfred says honestly.

Arthur nods, closing his eyes. Alfred has started to sway them back and forth and it's surprisingly soothing. He wishes that he could take Alfred back with him to the room. Sure, it's still early. But the covers seem like a good place to cuddle and talk about what they like. He likes to hear Alfred talk about food, he realizes.

"So..." Alfred trails. "What's your favorite food?"

Arthur turns his face forward with a groan, mashing his nose into Alfred's chest. Never mind. He doesn't want to talk about this. "I don't know."

Alfred's tone lilts up in amusement. Arthur can hear it through Alfred's shirt. "Oh so you just like everything." He's obviously teasing. One of his hands has found a sensitive spot at the base of Arthur's skull and rubs there tenderly.

"No, that's definitely not the answer." Arthur grumbles.

"I'll bet I can guess." Alfred ventures, still teasing. "Let's see... you're obviously from England, so... Do you like tea, Arthur?"

"That doesn't count as food, imbecile."

"No, but, do you like it?" Alfred presses curiously.

"Yes," Arthur admits.

Alfred beams, pulling back to smile at him. "Then I'll take you out for tea some time. There's got to be a good campus place around here somewhere."

"Alright..." Arthur agrees, knowing he'll probably have to fend off the inevitable sugary Danishes that accompany froufrou places, but he's willing to go... with Alfred.

Alfred smiles again, making Arthur's heart flutter. Of course, he then ruins it by opening his mouth. "Oh shit." Alfred breaks apart, brow furrowed, leaving Arthur abruptly ruffled and bereft. "Don't you have a class? I'm so sorry! Shit, it's like almost six too. We've been standing here a long time. I'm so sorry."

Arthur scowls nastily, cursing his stupid excuse.

Alfred assumes Arthur's angry at him and keeps up with a stream of apologies until Arthur can't stand it and snaps at him to shut up.

Alfred falls quiet. He ducks his head sheepishly.

So much for going back to the room, Arthur thinks. He bites his lip, considering. "Well, I have to go back to the dorm to grab some books. It's not too far... if you wouldn't mind walking with me."

Alfred perks immediately. His brilliant sunny smile returns with astonishing force. "Hell if I would, sure!"

They start back together. At first, it's still a little awkward. But Alfred has an affinity for melting awkwardness. "Watch out!" he suddenly screeches, a goofy grin tearing his lips apart when Arthur jumps.

"What the hell are you yelling about?" Arthur snaps, rubbing at his chest and glaring.

Alfred waves down. "You were about to step in a piece of gum. That would have been a tragedy."

Arthur glances at the pink conglomeration with a curled lip. It _would_ have been a tragedy. These are his nice loafers. "You don't deserve a thank you for that." He says snippily, speeding up to walk ahead of Alfred.

"Um. I just saved your life." Alfred retaliates overdramatically, hurrying to catch up. "Do you know what can happen if you step on a piece of gum?"

Arthur rolls his eyes, acting as if it's ever so great a burden to ask. "What?"

"You could get stuck." Alfred says seriously, with a ghoulish grin lurking just behind his intent frown. "And if you get stuck, you'll never be able to move again. Every day, there you'll be. Open to the elements. Until you become a statue here and then a memorial. Then a grave."

Arthur's eyebrows lift. "Plot twist. I take off my shoe."

"You wouldn't." Alfred says. He sounds certain.

"You're saying I would stand there until I died when I could just slip my shoe off and walk away?"

"Yeaaaap." Alfred smirks. "You're too clean for it. I would do it. You wouldn't."

Arthur opens his mouth indignantly to explain why no, that is ridiculous. Yes, he cares about how he looks, but no, he would not just stand there until he died because he didn't want to touch the ground with his socked foot. He doesn't get the chance, though.

"Alfred! Hey, Alfred, wait up!"

They both turn to see a man with the pointiest hairstyle come jogging down the street. Alfred's is naturally messy, but this man styles his hair to look messy. Arthur has no respect for him.

"Mathias! What's up?" Alfred holds out his hand and they bro hug. Arthur rolls his eyes. Great. "Hey, Arthur," Alfred turns to him, smiling. "This is Mathias. He's one of the guys that goes to school with me."

"So are you heading over?" Mathias blurts to Alfred impatiently. "Jett copped the key and Gil totally found a way to override surveillance. You have to be coming."

"Oh damn, that's tonight." Alfred bites his lip. "Man, I don't know about this..."

"Come on!" Mathias crows, bouncing a little. "You're literally the golden boy. Even if Basilio found out, he wouldn't do anything! Kiku's even coming for fuck's sake."

"Kiku?" Alfred starts to grin. "That's when the party starts."

"I don't know what universe you're living in." Mathias rolls his eyes. Alfred has a deep love for his friends, and seems to view them all as ultimately awesome. "Look, everybody's bringing somebody! It's going to be the time trial of the century. We'll have blue brandy, Jack Daniels, Jim, raspberry lemonade vodka. Whatever the hell you can think. You can even bring him." He throws his hand Arthur's way. "Just hurry up. We're already late."

"Oh," Alfred shifts back and forth on his heels. Arthur can tell he really wants to go. Whatever they're about to do seems ridiculously stupid. He wonders if he should say anything, but decides against it.

"Go on," he says reluctantly. "You don't have to walk the rest of the way."

Alfred's face falls. "Ah, Art. How about... why don't you come? I mean, I know you have a class, but it'll be really fun. The whole crew will be there. Like a party." He smiles pleadingly, lowering his voice. "I want to spend more time with you."

Arthur blushes, glancing at the impatient Mathias. "I... what are you even doing?"

Alfred smiles devilishly. "It'll be really fun. Trust me."

"It sounds illegal." Arthur says skeptically.

Mathias groans, suddenly grabbing both of their hands to start tugging them down the street. "It's a cooking challenge, dumbass. What do you think it is? We all want to be chefs. We draw cards with different foods and then see who can make them the best within the time limit. There's drinks and food. We sneak into the culinary school at night to do it. That's all you need to worry about."

Alfred jerks his hand back and then playfully swats Mathias' away from Arthur's. "Hands off." He says jokingly, but with a hint of seriousness. "This one's mine."

Arthur feels his face flush, but it's almost mechanical. Alfred and Mathias continue to banter as they walk along the darkening streets. Alfred's arm is around his shoulders, but it doesn't feel comforting anymore. It's constraining. He can't help throwing a worried look up at Alfred.

Alfred sees and misunderstands. He hesitates just a second before pressing a kiss to the top of Arthur's head. "Don't worry. They'll love you."


	3. Chapter 3

**Hey guys, I'm probably speaking into the void here given the delay in update, but I am a-okay. Story should be moving along now that I had some free time over winter break. college=death.**

 ** _ORIGINAL AUTHOR'S NOTE~_**

 _ **Hello all! It is I. I have returned. *cue dramatic music***_

 _ **But no really, a lot of people messaged me about finishing this! I missed a week and it's good to know that you guys missed me. :) So here, have a lengthy, slightly edited third chapter on the house! (shipping charges do apply)**_

 _ **Thanks to all my reviewers followers and favoriters. Also shout out to ArthurKirklandEnglishGentleman for creating an account just to fave and review. That kinda made my jaw drop. heh. you obviously don't know me that well yet. :P**_

 _ **Warning: Slightly graphic.**_

* * *

The culinary school is a whole different world after dark. The formerly welcome windows now hang like gaping black mouths. Arthur follows quickly at Alfred's heels, trying not to trip over the potted plants. His heart thuds unusually quickly like it always does when he's doing something he knows he shouldn't. Being a third year in university does not make him any smarter apparently. He shakes his head in exasperation. Here he's dated this boy for all of four hours and they're already doing something stupid. He should take it as a sign.

Alfred suddenly flashes a grin over his shoulder, holding his hand backwards for Arthur to grab onto. Curse the way Alfred's dimples show when he does that. Arthur slips his fingers between Alfred's, deciding he might as well kill himself.

Deep in the heart of the building lies the beat of food culture here at the Washington Culinary Institute: the kitchens. As they duck down silent hallways, Arthur can hear the distant sound of music. It isn't long before the smells become even more apparent. Something is cooking.

"Arthur!"

Alfred jolts him from his thoughts, coming to a halt outside a metal door. Mathias brushes past them impatiently. When he goes in, a flood of warmth, sound, color, and smell assaults Alfred and Arthur like a cannon. He notices Alfred swallow eagerly. Apparently, that bucket of popcorn really wasn't enough for him.

"Arthur," he says again. His blue eyes fill with a sincerity that makes Arthur shift nervously. "I promise everyone's super nice and awesome. I'm not going to ditch you in there like some jackass. You'll get to see me cook and I can show you my station where I usually work. And my team, and my oven, and my favorite ingredients for pie!" Alfred rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet in excitement.

Arthur scowls. "I'm not an invalid, Alfred. You don't have to hover." Though, he would prefer it. In fact, he would prefer to ditch this whole cooking thing entirely and head back to his room. A thought occurs to him that makes him perk. Maybe just maybe if he can work this right, there would yet be hope for his snuggly single bed back at the dorm.

Alfred's lips twitch. "I know. But..." he frowns looking troubled. "Earlier you looked nervous. I just didn't want you to think I'd strand you with a bunch of people you don't know." He raises his eyebrows earnestly, and Arthur is struck by how caring a person Alfred is.

Nevertheless, he retains his scowl on principle, pushing past Alfred. "Oh please."

"Okay then, tough guy," Alfred shrugs jokingly, following behind. He doesn't understand why Arthur is anxious, and if Arthur has his way, Alfred never will.

The room hits them like a blast of hot air. The kitchens are large and packed with people. Several metal preparation tables house red Solo cups and violently colored alcohols. Culinary students are scattered all about in aprons and white shirts. Quite a few people are obviously just guests, picking their way through mini hot dogs and shish kabobs, dressed in jeans and hoodies. A girl chases a boy in a chef's hat around the prep table, cornering him against the ovens with a kiss. Her red lipstick smears all over his face, but he doesn't seem to care, grinning.

The sharp lights sparkle across all of the appliances. There's the sound of a blender and the chopping of a food processor. Somewhere a kettle whistles. Pots spit on the stove and Arthur can see bread rising in one of the ovens.

As soon as Alfred enters, he's mobbed. Arthur realizes he should have expected this. Alfred is morbidly popular.

"Alfie, dude, yes!"

"He made it, Jett!"

"Who's ready for the competition tonight? Fuck yeah!"

Alfred dolls out highfives and hugs like a rockstar. His grin grows so wide it looks painful. He is in his element. His personality seems to magnify until he's caught the whole room's attention. Arthur feels abruptly unimpressive and wonders what claim he should be able to make on someone so well-liked. "Where's Gil?" Alfred asks as Mathias joins them again, but the crazy blonde doesn't get to answer before Alfred is shouting out. "Kiku, my man! Dude get over here!"

A short dignified Japanese man carefully edges his way through the humming crowd, looking slightly miffed. "Alfred." He greets simply.

Alfred beams. "Good I wanted to make sure you were here." Before Arthur can stop him, he grabs hold of Arthur's shoulders and steers him to stand in front. "This is Arthur, everyone!" He shouts. "You better be nice to him or I'll pull a Jett and burn the place down."

"Come on, mate! That was an accident!" A tan messy-haired guy shouts from the back, causing laughter to echo around. Arthur feels his face burn red in utter mortification and he shoves away from Alfred quickly, cussing.

"Stop it." He hisses under his breath, furious. "Stop acting like that. I am not a showdog."

Alfred's brow furrows. "What? I was just introducing you. Come on, Arthur. Don't be so-"

Arthur swears he's going to say uptight and if he says it he'll regret it for the rest of eternity, but Alfred doesn't get the chance because they're interrupted _again._

"Looks like Alfie's got himself a boyfriend!" A beaming albino-haired boy shoves his way forward, smirking.

"Watch it Gil." Alfred says, his smile fading just a bit.

"My hands are within sight," Gilbert says defensively, holding out his palms. "There's not even any questionable liquid on them like last time."

"Shut up, Gilbert. My god you know how to make a bad impression," A brown haired girl elbows him in the side. Quite roughly too, judging by the way he grunts. "Hi," she smiles brightly at Arthur. "I'm Lizzy. You seem like a normal person." She cracks him a reassuring grin, gesturing herself down. "I don't go here either. I just came to make sure he keeps himself in line." She waves her thumb at Gilbert. "I assume you're here to make sure Alfred doesn't get too crazy."

"I'm always crazy, bitch." Alfred shoots her a grin. Arthur rolls his eyes.

"I'm going to fetch a shirt and then we'll get this party started." He continues, starting to turn away. "Jett, can you nominate some judges? Preferably somebody who's not already drunk."

"On it!" The Australian grins. "Let's see... Lizzy, are you in as always?"

"Always." Lizzy turns to Arthur, cocking her head to the side. "Why don't you judge too, Arthur?"

Mathias, who is tying an apron around his waist, groans. "No, he'll just pick Alfred because they're dating. That's totally unfair. You already think Alfred's adorable, so that's two unfair advantages."

"I'm adorable." Gilbert inserts, head lost in a pullover chef shirt. "If we're having a most adorable contest, it's me. I win. Lizzy would totally pick me." He flashes a crooked-tooth grin once he finds his way out, hair staticy. Lizzy rolls her eyes and sighs.

"Let Arthur be a judge, Mathias. You don't have to be such a bully. I know you'd pick Lukas as a judge anyway. It's only fair."

"But Lukas hates me," Mathias whines. "That's not an advantage at all. He purposefully picks other people so that I lose."

"Then stop hitting on him," Lizzy retaliates.

" _Then stop hitting on him,_ " Mathias replies in a crude imitation of her accent, earning himself a swat. "Whatever I really don't care. I'm just damn starving. Where is Alfred anyway? Let's get this started."

"Arthur," Lizzy turns to him, grinning. He can't help but feel slightly dazed at all that's going on. The place is utter chaos and everyone seems to revel in it. He likes the warmth and the soft vibe, but finds himself wishing that Alfred didn't have to cook through it all. Preferring that they find some quiet corner and... explore new territory. Cough. cough.

"You're going to be a judge with me." She explains, leading him over to one of the empty preparation tables. Four stoves are on the other side. Each with three boxes beside them. "See, those three boxes? Some of the other chefs gathered ingredients to put in the challenge boxes, you know like those cooking shows on TV? Basically, they each open their first box and have to use all of the ingredients to create a dish within the time limit. The judges, that'll be me, you, and probably Kiku since he is an actual chef, will pick the loser for each round and then they get knocked out. There's three rounds and then we'll have a winner. The prize is no dish duty for a month."

Arthur swallows. "I'm not sure I-"

"It's okay. You don't have to know anything about food," she interrupts. "It's just for fun. In fact, the purpose is that we don't know much about food. It's all about which dish tastes the best, completely your opinion. " She leans forward a little bit, green eyes shining mischievously. "Alfred is notorious for winning. The testosterone in this room is about to reach an all time high because everyone wants to topple Wonderboy."

"Wonderboy?" Arthur forgets his anxiety momentarily.

"His nickname." Lizzy shakes her head. "Not the best, but it stuck."

"Lovely." He's dating a dufus. He's dating a real dufus. Arthur shifts on the balls of his feet, glancing over as Kiku joins them.

"Hello Arthur," he says quietly. "Alfred has talked a lot about you."

"He has?" Arthur blinks. They've known each other for what? A weekend?

"Yes..." Kiku trails a bit, almost looking like he might smile. "How he was going to outsmart you by buying the tickets online?"

Arthur snorts. "That won't happen again. He thinks I won't get him back, but I will."

Kiku examines him for a moment, almost like an x-ray, making him shift uncomfortably.

"They're almost ready," Lizzy informs him dutifully. "They're really fun to watch when they cook, but the best part, obviously, is the food."

Arthur's stomach turns and he swallows convulsively. "You know, I'd rather not be a judge, actually. I meant to say earlier. We came from the movies and I had nearly a whole bucket of popcorn. I don't think I could eat a spot more." He laughs, knowing that he's rambling a little bit. Kiku just stares silently, but Lizzy frowns.

"Ah, surely you can manage a few bites. You don't have to eat the whole dish. Even I don't do that. Some people on the other hand..." She shoots a look at Gilbert and Alfred who are trash talking each other in the corner. "I don't know how they're not thirty pounds heavier honestly."

Arthur nods, forcing his smile. "Really, though, I am quite full. I think I'll sit this one out." Why can't they just let him do what he wants? He shifts uncomfortably. She's still looking at him. Is she annoyed? Is she going to say something? Does she believe him? He tries to get his wayward thoughts under control, taking a deep breath.

"I think Alfred would be really disappointed if you didn't try at least one bite." She pouts, elbowing him in the side.

Damn her for playing the Alfred card. "Alfred can get over it." He mutters, running a finger under his collar. "I'm not going to judge."

"You're not?" Alfred shows up beside him, making him jump and scowl. "Come on, you barely had any popcorn! I don't think you even had any. I need to fatten you up. You're like ten pounds! Plus with you, I'd totally have this in the bag." He smiles teasingly, elbowing Arthur who reddens and shoves him away.

"Stop it, Alfred! I don't want to judge. Can you not get that through your thick skull, you idiot?" His vicious tone creates an uneasy silence. Lizzy stares and Kiku just looks uncomfortable.

Alfred frowns, rubbing at his side. "Alright, I wasn't going to make you be a judge. Jeez, I was just teasing." He sighs, glancing at his other two friends then back at Arthur. "Look, if you really want to, you can leave. I know you'd rather be in class."

"I never said that," Arthur retorts. His heart falls. Does Alfred really think that? He doesn't even have a class right now. It was just a stupid lie. "I just said I didn't want to be a judge. Don't put words in my mouth."

"I don't want you to be here if you don't want to be here." Alfred says and there's no hint of humor in his tone. He looks away fiddling with the buttons on his white shirt impatiently. He wants to get on with the night. Arthur is holding him back.

Arthur swallows. He should leave. He doesn't have a future with this boy. It would be utterly improbable for so many reasons. No matter how attractive Alfred is, he needs to save himself from falling too deeply. He's a master of self denial and he's perfectly capable of getting on without a goofy American.

He opens his mouth to say that he _should_ be leaving, but the damn kitchen lights and the noise, the smells. He throws the dog a bone. "I want to try your cooking though." He can't manage a smile, but he ducks his head, making himself appear bashful. He's a decent actor when he wants to be, which is often. It seems that recently he's been telling a lot of lies.

"Really?" Alfred perks up instantly. Arthur looks at him in disbelief.

"Good, I want you to try it." Alfred grins so widely. Arthur is shocked that he's the source for it. Before he can say anything else, Alfred pulls him into a hug, crushing his bones. He pulls apart breathlessly. "Sometimes," Alfred pants. "Sometimes I have a hard time saying what I mean, but I'll make you something special. Then... then you'll understand." He blushes, touching Arthur's fingertips lightly with his own.

His blue eyes fill with something tender that makes Arthur feel squirmy. He's not sure he's ever dated someone like this. Why does Alfred have to make everything so gushy?

"Hey Jones! Are you done reenacting the Notebook over there? Some of us want to start cooking!" Gilbert calls with a wicked grin.

"Fuck off, Gilbert." Alfred calls without missing a beat. "I'm going to kick your ass and you know it." He grins at Arthur. "Watch this."

The chefs line up. It's Gilbert, Alfred, Jett and Mathias. All of the spectators, other culinary students and their guests, crowd around. Munching and talking and drinking. Arthur stays by Lizzy who's responding vapidly to Gilbert's catcalls. Arthur wonders if they're going out. If they aren't, they will be.

"You are going to be a judge, Arthur?"

Arthur jumps, wishing people would stop sneaking up on him. He meets Kiku's deep brown eyes uncertainly. "I said I wasn't."

"How else will you try his food?"

"I don't want to try _their_ food." Arthur growls irritably. As it is, he doesn't want to try Alfred's food either.

Jett, who is standing nearest to them, calls out, "Hurtful, mate!"

Arthur doesn't offer an apology. With a shout from one of the culinary students, the competitors are now allowed to open their boxes. Each pulls out their different ingredients. Arthur judges by their facial expressions whether they're happy or not. He knows next to nothing about cooking, so all ingredients are basically useless to him. Alfred is frowning at his haul in concentration. For once, there is no happy go lucky grin. His hair flutters in his face and he brushes it away in annoyance.

"Start the timer." Kiku says.

Lizzy holds up her iPhone timer. "Ready, set, go!" She starts the clock and the chefs are whirling into action. The loud clanks of various pots and pans echo discordantly. Gilbert and Jett throw pots full of water on the stove. Mathias preps his oven and starts up a mixing bowl with flour. Alfred, however, starts running in the opposite direction.

"Where is he going?" Arthur asks incredulously as Alfred darts from the room.

"Supply closet," Kiku half-smiles. "He has a plan."

Lizzy groans. "Is he going to make another dessert?"

"That's his favorite thing to do." Kiku shrugs. "I would say it's likely."

"Can... can they make anything?" Arthur asks hesitantly.

"Anything they want to, first round." Lizzy nods. "After that, they can only make entrees. That makes it more difficult, especially when some of the ingredients are chocolate chips or pie filling. They really have to know how food works, what flavors go with what."

"Interesting." Arthur says quietly. He means it too.

Alfred comes galloping back in with a giant machine in his arms. Arthur doesn't recognize what it is. But Gilbert glances over and whistles. "You're fucking crazy, Jones. With those ingredients. Good luck."

Alfred doesn't pay him a glance, searching for a plug. "Keep your luck, Gil. I really don't need it." He jumps to his feet again, catching Arthur's gaze. A brilliant smile lights up his features. "Do you like ice cream, Arthur?"

Arthur hasn't had ice cream since... secondary? "Possibly," He settles to say. His stomach feels like a ball of cement, so he feels that's an honest enough answer.

Alfred's grin falls to a smirk. "Okay," he says as he dumps a splash of milk into a mixing bowl. "I see how it is. You'll like my ice cream. Promise." He flashes another quick grin Arthur's way, already splashing liquid on his uniform as he whisks furiously.

The competition continues for thirty minutes or so. Arthur isn't really paying attention to the time. Some people aren't paying attention at all, lost in the throes of that interesting blue raspberry vodka. He knows it's a girly drink, but his curiosity gets the better of him. He sends a quick look at Alfred, pleased to see he can slip away without being noticed.

Arthur approaches the prep table cautiously, half thinking that someone will tell him to stop. He reaches out, making sure to avoid the greasy heaping plates of onion rings and other fried crap. His fingers close around the neck of the bottle and he brings it forward curiously. It's half gone and violently blue. The label is hot pink and ripped a bit. He turns it around to examine the nutrition facts. Not that alcohol has ever been very nutritious.

64 calories an ounce. 0 percent on everything else. No sodium. No potassium. No trans fat. Just alcohol it seems. Blue raspberry flavored alcohol. He can manage that. Can't he? He'll splurge tonight. Ice cream and vodka. Why not? It's within reason and control.

He grasps the bottle more firmly, determining to seek out a measuring cup so that he can get the proportions correct. There must be one around. It is a goddamn kitchen. He starts to walk towards some drawers when Lizzy calls him back.

"Arthur, they're almost finished! Get over here!"

He hesitates, but gives in with a sigh. He should be there for Alfred. After all, he's going to have to eat this ice cream. There's no choice in it anymore. His stomach knots uncomfortably at the thought. He _hates_ being forced to eat things. It's a big enough deal to figure out when he should eat things and how he should eat things. He doesn't need people dictating what he should eat on top of it.

He joins Lizzy reluctantly. She flashes a smile his way. He supposes he can at least commend her for still being polite after he snapped earlier.

The crowd around them starts to count down. "Five, four, three, two..."

Jett, Gilbert, Mathias, and Alfred are all sweaty and panicky, scurrying to get something on the plates. Arthur sees that Alfred has created a pastry to go along with a delicate scoop of what appears to be orange ice cream. Wonderful. He sends a helpless glance at the door, holding the bottle of alcohol to his chest. If it gets too hot, he supposes he could hide in the bathroom. Or walk back to the dorms.

"One!" Everyone shouts and the scrape of four individual plates being pushed forward draws Arthur's attention back to the scene.

They've found someone to replace him as judge. Arthur doesn't know her, nor does he care. Alfred catches his eye, suddenly coming out from around the table to join him at the back. "Excuse me," he says as he pushes past people, brushing his sweaty bangs from his eyes. "Hey," He greets warmly when he reaches Arthur's side. "Hey, I've got a wager."

"A wager?" Arthur murmurs suspiciously.

"Sure, you eat that whole plate of ice cream and we're out of here right now." Arthur's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. Alfred grins mischievously. "It's noisy here, hot and loud. And I don't get to talk to you. We can head back to... somewhere. My place or yours. It depends on if my roomie's home."

Arthur swallows. "Why do I have to eat the whole plate for that?"

Alfred shrugs. "You can pretend to get sick off of it and I can use it as an excuse to get our asses out of here. They won't let me leave otherwise. I'm dead serious. They're like... ridiculous." He laughs shaking his head. "I know it's kind of a dumb idea, but it'll give you the chance to try my food and Gilbert a chance to feel like he won for once. Cuz I made you sick." Alfred snorts. "Like I'd ever do that."

Well, you're very close to it, Arthur thinks. Normally, he would refuse something like this outright. He doesn't eat on demand. Alfred doesn't tell him what to do. But... leaving early sounds glorious. He was going to have to try Alfred's food anyway. It's just a few extra bites. This means he won't allow himself to have the vodka though. And no cucumbers in the morning. He exhales. For two mornings at least.

Alfred is looking at him with puppy dog eyes and he feels the pressure building. Alfred is remarkably good at forcing people to eat his food. "Alright," he snaps. "Fine. I'll eat it and pretend to get sick and then we're going to my dorm room and you're doing whatever I tell you to do."

"Deal." Alfred agrees eagerly. "I'm your slave."

"The sad part is you think I'm joking." Arthur scowls, pushing the bottle of vodka into Alfred's hands. "Put that back."

"Why?" Alfred looks at it, grinning. "We could take it with us?"

"I can't have any." Arthur says impatiently, wanting to get this over with. "I'm already way over the limit at this point. I simply must have some self control."

"The limit?" Alfred frowns. "What limit? Were you drinking already?"

"No," Arthur delivers a deep sigh. "Just put it back, will you? I have to eat your goddamn food."

"Hey," Alfred waggles a finger at him. "That's a privilege."

He rolls his eyes, beginning to push through the crowd. If only. Anyone else would be dying to eat Alfred's food. He wishes he could trade spots with anyone else. Nonetheless after the judges have spoken and kicked Jett out, Arthur comes forward to reluctantly claim the last of Alfred's plates of ice cream.

"It's really good, Arthur," Lizzy raves, licking her fingers.

He just manages to keep his lip from curling in disgust. He doesn't mind other people eating, but he wishes they wouldn't shove it down his throat. No pun intended.

For a minute, all he can do is stare at the dish. It's cooked to perfection. The crust of the pastry is perfectly golden. The ice cream which is in fact orange flavored has a decorative bit of orange peel cresting the top. It looks creamy enough to coat his tongue, and the pastry would melt at first taste. He swallows heavily.

He feels something cool being pressed into his hand and then something warm pressing up against his back. It's Alfred, giving him a fork. "Hurry up and we can get out of here." He says in a low eager whisper.

Arthur scowls. "You can't speed the process, imbecile. I'm critiquing your presentation." Really, his heart is pounding and he's gathering his nerve.

Alfred laughs and even Kiku smiles beside him. "How is it?" He murmurs deeply, voice rumbling. He lets his arms slip carefully around Arthur's waist, resting his chin on Arthur's shoulder. "Does it make you want to take your clothes off and sing hallelujah?"

Arthur groans. "You're just horny, you wanker."

He feels Alfred smile against his neck and say nothing. Confirmation. Arthur would rip him a new one if he wasn't feeling exactly the same way. With his mind on Alfred, he adjusts the fork in his hand so that he holds it right, forces down the lump in his throat, and gently slices a small bit of the pastry and ice cream onto the utensil. He tries not to make a big deal of it, knowing that many people are watching.

Arthur Kirkland is an excellent liar. When the dessert hits his tongue, he turns to Alfred and smiles teasingly. "I possibly like this ice cream."

"Possibly." Alfred challenges, pressing his lips freely to Arthur's head. "Possibly? Ah, you wound me."

Arthur rolls his eyes, swallowing. He can feel it scrape down his throat, gently nudging at every ridge of his trachea. Nearly causing him to... He coughs compulsively, quickly covering his mouth. Alfred blinks in surprise letting go. "You alright?"

"Just choking." He forces another grin, swallowing more forcefully.

Alfred grins. "Don't do that. I need you for things."

"Things?"

"Special things." He smirks teasingly, resuming his hold on Arthur's waist.

Arthur snorts, turning his gaze reluctantly back to the plate. If only one bite were enough.

It's a long journey from there, plodding through the mountains of gold crumble crust and light orange slopes. He admits to himself that Alfred's arms provide a good distraction when they wrap around him. They keep his mind off of his dilemma. Yet for every bite he eats, there's another one. It's work enough keeping up his endurance. He hears voices like distant echoes. Lizzy is teasing him about loving it so much he's eating the whole thing. He purposefully acts like he can't hear her.

She's gone and eaten the whole thing too, hasn't she? Who is she to judge? She probably can't even begin to guess how many calories are in something so rich as this. Arthur tries to keep himself from estimating, but the numbers pop into his head without heed. He would peg it at least 650. The cream is very rich. It's like slime. Maybe 750.

Really, he can't taste a thing of it. If he thinks about taste, it tastes disgusting like acid. It burns his mouth. He wants to spit it back out. And he can feel it. That's the worst part. He feels it crawl sluggishly down his throat, taking its damn time before it burrows like a hibernating beast in his stomach. Never still, but scratching and crawling and shifting and _gurgling_. He _hates_ it. God, he hates it. No cucumbers tomorrow. No tea either. Nothing. He'll allow himself nothing.

He licks his lips, unable to be rid of the heaviness on his tongue. It's too heavy. His guts churn and staring at the nearly empty plate, he suddenly has to press his face into Alfred's chest. He can't look at it. He can't think about how _he_ ate all that. How now it's all in his stomach, setting there like a rock, a brick. There's only a couple crumbs left on the plate now.

750? It has to be 800.

He feels so heavy. He is so heavy. He lost control and now he's paying the price.

He keeps his face pressed into Alfred's chest, his heart beating faster. He can feel his stomach groaning.

"You alright, Arthur?" Alfred asks, but there isn't real worry in his tone. He thinks Arthur is play acting sick, which Arthur assumes is for the best. Apparently, he's eaten enough now. No, who is he kidding, more than enough. More than he ever wanted to eat. His pulse thuds in his ears. He pulls back from Alfred, eyes wide.

"...Arthur?" Real concern colors Alfred's tone in confusion.

He must look afraid then. He has to control himself. In front of Alfred. "I'm fine... just... just..." he stumbles. "Feeling a bit sick." He forces himself to look around him. People are watching. He's playing his part though. Thank God.

"Do you think we should head out?" Alfred asks and he sounds vastly uncertain. He can't tell whether Arthur is serious or not.

"Yeah... that... yes... that would be excellent." Arthur draws himself up, arms falling to clutch at his stomach. It's wider now, isn't it? It feels harder. A full plate was too much. Alfred asked for too much.

Alfred frowns and then suddenly says very seriously, "Arthur, are you okay?"

"I'm fine." He starts to say and the words get about halfway out of his mouth. He does something dumb though. In his efforts to avoid Alfred's prying eyes, he looks down. His eyes fall on the empty plate again and before he can stop himself, he gags.

People part like the Red Sea when he does. His arms grasp around his middle and he doesn't want to puke. Not in front of all these people. Maybe later. When he's alone and he can get rid of it. _Get rid of it._ But not here. Not in front of the boy he likes.

Arthur panics and that only makes it worse. Alfred can't see him looking so filthy. But he can feel it _moving._ One more look at the empty plate sends him over the edge. The disgusting, _disgusting_ pastry comes soaring back up and fills his cheeks. He can't make himself swallow it again. He can't have it in his mouth any longer. He vomits.

Now that he sees it on the floor and it's disgusting, _disgusting._ Food is _disgusting._ He gags again and starts choking, coughing it up in splatters. Oh shit. Tears are in his eyes. He can feel himself hyperventilating. He can't breathe, and he looks like an idiot. He's fat and he can't control himself and he's useless. He can't... he's not... he'll never...

"Arthur."

Arthur feels Alfred's hand on his back. "Hey... breathe, okay?" Alfred pats him firmly, using his other hand to grab Arthur's shoulder and very carefully steer him into an upright position. Arthur's face flushes brilliant red. He searches Alfred's face for disgust, because it's there. Somewhere. Alfred just hides it well. He's a good person. He's expected to hide it.

Alfred frowns. "I really made you sick, didn't I? Fucking Christ." He's the only one standing within five feet of Arthur. Everyone else having moved to get out of the splash zone.

"I... I'm sorry, Alfred." He stumbles, heart thundering. "It was really good. I just... I'm..." Stupid, an idiot, not strong enough, not good enough.

"Hey, it's not your fault." Alfred very gently cups his cheek. "You're sick and that's okay. Look, I'll get you a bowl and we'll blow this joint. Don't you worry about anything. We're going back to your dorm and I'm making you lay down. I know the janitor who works here nights and he'll clean this up, no problem." Alfred's fingers soothingly stroke at his cheek. "Don't look that way. It's not your fault."

But it is. It his is fault.

Even so, when Alfred puts an arm around him, he can't help but greedily lean into it. He doesn't ever want to see these people again, but he wants Alfred. He doesn't deserve Alfred, but that doesn't keep him from wanting. He can't control himself and that's his problem. He can't control how much food he eats and he can't control how _badly_ he wants someone that will never love him.

He leads Alfred through the dark streets to his dorm room. His roommate is thankfully absent. As soon as they walk through the door, Alfred takes charge, finding his pajamas and shoving them into his arms. Ordering him to take medicine. Forcing him to bundle up.

He rolls his eyes and grumbles about Alfred's treatment, but secretly he enjoys it. When Alfred finally settles next to him, pulling him wonderfully close in the small twin bed, he relishes it. There's the guilty pang that settles in his stomach like a concrete block, that this is a lie and he's only copping affection out of Alfred. But he shoves that away, tugging Alfred's arms more firmly around himself.

Alfred chuckles against the back of his neck. He rubs his nose up and down at the base of Arthur's skull, humming. "This isn't how I expected the day to end. And you're probably not feeling too hot, but... it's not so bad."

Arthur snorts. But he agrees. This is far from bad. If he can just keep Alfred from discovering how disgusting, _disgusting_ he is, then maybe this can continue for a little longer.

* * *

 **any love as far as reviews, follows and faves much appreciated! Should be posting another story (usuk) later tonight if interested. Thanks!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Hey guys, here's the next installment! I'm going to try to keep things slowly rolling by putting these up on Friday!**

 **Original Author's Note Below:**

 ** _*Chapter 4*: Catcher Pitcher_**

 ** _Look who updated on time! This person! Woot. Hailing from nowhere Kansas for Thanksgiving, I hope all you Americans had a blissful food coma. I'm just thankful I have wifi :P_**

 ** _This chapter is pretty long... so I'll just leave you to it. Germain= Germania._**

* * *

Arthur's nose twitches. Something brushes along his cheek and he bats at it moodily. His alarm hasn't gone off. For all intents and purposes, he is dead before eight a.m. The tickling sensation continues, until he can't ignore it. His eyes fly open and he's ready to give his face a good all around scratching.

But a tan hand obscures his vision, and he realizes with a jolt that he's not alone in his bed.

"Morning." Alfred's low sleepy voice rumbles near his ear. He traces his thumb down Arthur's cheek with a soft grin. His hair is flying all about his face like a crow's nest and the blue of his eyes seems unusually bright as he squints. "Sorry to wake you. I just wondered if you were going to get up at all today?"

Arthur scowls. "What does that mean?" He irritably pushes Alfred's hand away, burrowing a little more into the covers.

Alfred chuckles lightly. "I never pegged you as the sleeping-in type."

"What are you talking about?" Arthur grumbles. "The alarm hasn't gone off. It's before eight... Isn't it?"

Frowning, he sits up, cracking his back. Alfred's hand falls from Arthur's face to rest at the dip of his spine, rubbing there lightly. Arthur massages back his rumpled hair, frowning. "What time is it?"

Alfred waves lazily at the floor, grabbing their shared pillow and tugging it over his face. "You kicked it off at some point. Wasn't a lot of room."

The overturned clock ticks down another minute. Arthur has to tilt his head to read it. Wait. 11:53? "Oh shit." Arthur shoves away the covers, rushing to check the alarm. It didn't go off. "Shit, shit, shit, shit."

"Do you have a class?" Alfred yawns, watching him scurry about like a rabbit on caffeine. Alfred is still in his clothes from the other day, rumpled jeans and chef shirt. His Nike AirMax are jumbled on the carpet.

"Yes... well, no." Arthur admits, scouring his closet for something to wear. "It's just... I need to be downstairs for lunch."

"Are you really feeling up to that?" Alfred half-whines. "You were sick the other day. Come on! I think you're too sick to go anywhere. Too sick for classes. Too sick for food. Too sick for getting out of bed and leaving Alfred lonely and forsaken."

Arthur snorts.

"Anyway, I don't have anything going on." Alfred smiles when Arthur catches his gaze. "We could, just, you know, stay in bed. Call it a day."

Arthur bites his lip, scanning over Alfred. Particularly Alfred's arms, which were very comfortable now that he recalls. Damn it. That was the best sleep he's had in ages. He can't remember waking up once. "I really have to go downstairs," he says regretfully, balancing his armload of clothes. "But, I'll come right back and we can uh..." he blushes a bit. "Start again where we left off."

Alfred groans. "Do you really gotta leave?"

"Yes, I really gotta." Arthur rolls his eyes at Alfred's terrible grammar, leaning against the doorframe of his bathroom.

Alfred chuckles. "Fine, fine, Mr. Responsible. I admire your ability to keep a schedule. At least bring me something from the cafeteria. I'll be keeping the bed warm for when you return."

Before Alfred can see, Arthur shuts the door, feeling a soft giddy smile pull at his features. Alfred is going to wait for him.

He wriggles his way into his sweater vest, purposefully ignoring his reflection. He doesn't have time to do anything with his hair, and he knows it looks awful. A quick comb through only makes it stick up worse and crackle with static.

He scuffs on his loafers and is just about to take off, when he catches a glimpse of himself and groans. He needs to shave. Badly.

He doesn't look appalling with stubble, but he has nice clean cut clothes. They just don't look right with fuzz.

"Damn it," he hisses softly to himself. He jerks open a drawer, searching for his razor. A glimpse of garish red plastic draws his fingers. He quickly starts to fill up the sink. To keep his collared shirt from getting wet, he rolls up his sleeves sloppily, dolloping his hands with shaving cream. Since he's already quite late, he decides to take the time for a piss.

Standing over the toilet, he brandishes his razor only to realize that it's chock full of his roommate's hair.

"My fucking luck," He growls, throwing the disgusting thing against the wall. Perhaps he is being a pansy, but he refuses to touch anything his sloppy, disgusting roommate has used to motor through his peach fuzz.

Arthur zips his trousers in a rush, stumbling out with a white foam beard to search for a razor in his travel bag.

It truly is amazing how fast he can forget Alfred is in a room.

Alfred raises his eyebrows when he sees Arthur. His expression furrows teasingly and he smiles. "Nice look. Very Santa."

"Oh, shut it." Arthur snaps, nonetheless blushing a violent red. They've only been on their first date yesterday. He's trying not to make a complete fool of himself just yet.

Alfred only laughs. "Don't forget to bring me back something, okay? I'm starving!"

"I will. I will." Arthur growls, not bothering to close the bathroom door as he resumes shaving with vigor. "God, do you ever stop eating?"

"Nope, I'd die." Alfred snickers at his own cleverness and then groans again. "Come on, Arthur. You don't have cable. Did you know that? This sucks."

Arthur's lips twitch. "There's Apple TV, you moron. Flip that little black box on at the base. We've got Netflix, Hulu, Crunchyroll, the works."

"You are awesome." Alfred grins eagerly. "I might just come live at your place."

"Why? Five inch televisions suit your fancy?"

"Nah, but five inch beds do. 'Specially with you." Alfred flashes another grin when Arthur looks over. "Do you even have a roommate?"

"Yes, but he thankfully has a partner. Gets him out of my hair." Arthur snorts, using a washcloth to scrub off the excess shaving cream.

"Our hair, you mean." Alfred catches his gaze meaningfully. "I really like you so far, Arthur. Not to move too fast or anything, but I'm hoping we could make this a regular thing."

Arthur doesn't say a word at first, careful to regulate his facial expressions. He throws the towel over the shower curtain rod to dry, smoothes down his hopeless hair, and adjusts the sleeves of his collared shirt. Inside, his heart is thundering like no other. Out of the corner of his eye, he can admire Alfred while pretending to look at himself in the mirror.

Alfred is very attractive. Without the sloppy hopelessness of his usual clothes, he can even exude a certain amount of professionalism. Last night, Arthur remembers thinking that Alfred looked remarkably good in that clean cut chef's uniform. In the morning with his hair rumpled and his eyes squinty, his smiles are more crooked and he tends to giggle more than laugh. Arthur takes pride in knowing what Alfred is like in the morning. He tucks away each little observance like a treasured secret, intent to remember every detail like dates in his history classes.

"Arthur..." Alfred prompts hesitantly when he still doesn't answer.

Arthur takes a breath, holding his chin up higher. He is careful to keep too much honesty from entering his tone. "Yeah, I think that would be alright. Depending on how much you're over, I can make you split the Netflix bill."

"Heeeyyy!" Alfred whines. His sunny smile returns in full force. "You're a little bastard, Arthur. We haven't even gone on our second date, yet." He stands like he plans to send Arthur off at the door.

Arthur ignores the fluttery pleasure at the thought, rolling his eyes. "You seem to have made yourself perfectly comfortable. I'm merely including you. You wanted to pay, remember?"

Alfred snorts this time, though his smile never deserts his face. "You were sick last night, you big meanie. I was going to stay whether you wanted me to or not." He reaches for Arthur, pulling him into a big hug. "Your roommate obviously wouldn't have been there for ya, so I guess you had to be stuck with me."

Arthur pretends to grumble, not hugging back. A flood of guilt settles in his stomach all the same. Sick. Right.

"See you..." Alfred trails, waiting for him to fill in details.

Arthur coughs. "An hour tops."

"You don't mind if I stay here?"

"By all means," Arthur murmurs. "I'll bring you something to eat, too. What do you like?"

"Ehhh..." Alfred scratches the back of his head. "God... I'm up for anything. Are you going to eat with me or with someone else?"

Arthur shifts. "I'm going to go ahead and eat down there with the person I'm meeting. How about... How about I bring you some Chinese? I've heard it's the best thing in the cafeteria."

"Alright," Alfred nods agreeably. "Sure thing. Later then, Arthur. I'll be..." He turns to take a flying leap onto the bed. "Here when you return."

"Don't break anything, idiot." Arthur rolls his eyes in exasperation. Once he's out the door, he settles into a jog. He's already way late. They usually meet about a half hour before this. If Arthur had his choice, he wouldn't be meeting them at all. However, he knows if he doesn't show up, it'll only get worse.

He rides the lift down to the first floor dining hall. Every student he's ever spoken with has raved about his fabulous luck in getting placed at Myers House. The dining hall located just inside, you don't even have to change out of your pajamas!

Like Arthur would ever wander out of his dorm room, let alone floor, with pajamas on. He adjusts the collar of his shirt, scanning the tables. The place is packed. It's a Monday and school is in full swing. The smells of various foods clash in waves around him. With so many people, he finds it hard to spot the person he is looking for. Secretly, he hopes they've given up and left.

Arthur makes a beeline for the Chinese queue, reaching into his pocket to fiddle with his meal plan card. He's hardly used it at all this year, finding it much more calming to spend mealtimes alone in his room.

With the extra money, he decides he can definitely indulge Alfred. He'll get him the best noodles, maybe a smoothie, even a dessert. Arthur smiles quietly to himself, imagining Alfred's enthusiasm. Alfred is always excited about food.

"Arthur! There you are. I've been looking for you."

Arthur flinches, giving a sigh. He glances over to see one of his history professors smiling pleasantly at him. The man has long nearly waist length blonde hair. He is one of the oddballs of the campus, a bit quirky in his teaching methods. He has a dreamy way about him that rubs certain students the wrong way. Arthur has never thought ill of him until recently.

"Professor Germaine." Arthur acknowledges him stiffly.

"You seem to have beat me to it." The man remarks, gesturing at the winding queue in front of them. "I'm glad to see you picking up a plate, though."

Arthur forces a smile in response, shifting uncomfortably. Every time he talks to the man, it's like being thrown backwards in time. To a stuffy office filled with encased manuscripts. Old fashioned bookcases with creaky ladders to reach the top shelves. Dusty lemon candies untouched for centuries in a little glass bowl...

 _Professor Germaine smiles over his crossed fingers at Arthur. Second semester. Last year._

 _"Arthur, you have not been quite as sharp in class as you used to be. Pardon my asking, but has something been going on?"_

 _"No sir, nothing. I suppose I..." he laughs nervously. "haven't been getting enough sleep."_

 _"Hmm." Professor Germaine says nothing, eyeing him in a way that leads Arthur to believe he can see right through him. "Why was it that you skipped our lunch together the other day?"_

 _Arthur swallows, believing his professor to be angry. "I'm so sorry, sir. I did not mean to waste your time. Something... something came up. I'm sorry I had to cancel so short notice."_

 _Professor Germaine says nothing, again. Examining his fingernails. "Arthur, I haven't seen you in the dining hall recently."_

 _Arthur blinks, throat going tighter. "Well... no, I'm very busy. I work and have classes. Usually, I just grab something on the way back to my dorm, if I can."_

 _"Arthur..." Professor Germaine looks up at him seriously. "I go to the dining hall at precisely eleven forty five every week day. Next time, I will see you. Do you understand?"_

 _Arthur can't swallow. His palms are sweating. "Sir, I don't- I don't understand."_

 _"You need to come to the dining hall, Arthur."_

 _"Why?"_

 _"I'm concerned about you, Arthur."_

 _"About what?"_

 _"I'm concerned that you're not eating." Professor Germaine levels him with a heavy gaze._

 _Arthur scowls, looking away. "That's ridiculous. You don't know about my eating habits. I meet with you three times a week. You can't possibly know what I do with my time. I could eat ten meals for all you know. Maybe I just exercise. Maybe I-"_

 _"Arthur," His professor interrupts again. "Let me rephrase what I was saying before. I will see you at the dining hall or a nurse will be seeing you in your dorm next time you don't show up."_

...

So here Arthur is, or rather here he is every weekday, under the watchful eye of his annoying as hell history professor. Arthur doesn't care how good-hearted the man may seem. It is strictly none of his business what Arthur chooses to put in his mouth. He has his reasons for not eating in the dining hall. He's perfectly allowed to do whatever he wants. He's an adult.

In fact, he's not even sure why he comes. The threat of the nurse doesn't scare him. He just doesn't want more people in his business is all. Honestly. He wishes people would leave him alone.

Professor Germaine continues to talk to him. Arthur takes a childish sort of pride in tuning him out completely until they reach the counter. He finds what appears to be the best looking dishes, asking for takeaway boxes and a large smoothie. He decides he'll buy Alfred a dessert somewhere else. Fortune cookies seem to be the only sweet thing on the menu here.

"You won't be eating with me today?" Professor Germaine asks softly.

"Nope." Arthur feels that he shouldn't have to explain what he does in the privacy of his dorm room. He's not about to tell Professor Germaine that he has a hopefully-soon-to-be boyfriend waiting for him upstairs.

Nonetheless, at the professor's pressuring looks, Arthur construes a story to get himself out. "I have a paper that I haven't even begun to work on. I'm planning on stocking up and heading out." He takes the bag and the smoothie from the worker, handing over his card.

Professor Germaine doesn't seem to believe him, but he doesn't push. "Alright then, Arthur. I'll see you in class Wednesday."

Arthur forces a smile. Once he's far away enough, he scowls. He hates that man.

After stopping at a place for cookies, Arthur gladly skirts the parting lunch crowd. He whistles all the way up, getting more and more exhilarated as the floors tick by. When he reaches his floor, he's practically skipping. He doesn't have any classes today, no work, nothing at all. If Alfred hadn't come along, it would have been his worst day of the week.

He is ahead of the syllabus after all, and without enough schoolwork to occupy him he doesn't like to consider where his thoughts could have ended up.

Arthur knocks at the door, nearly smiling. His hands are too full to grab his key, so Alfred will have to get his lazy ass up. He shifts his feet for a minute, feeling winded. This food is really heavy. His arms are burning. When Alfred doesn't come, he groans, leaning down to set the bag on the floor and fish for his key.

"I hope you're happy about this, you lazyass," he pants a little bit, stopping to rub his biceps. Was the food really that heavy?

The key goes in with a click and he kicks the door open with his foot.

It's like someone pulling the plug on the electric. His face falls immediately when he sees the empty bed, the curtains fluttering quietly above the vent. Arthur doesn't want to believe it at first. He grabs the stupid bag of food shoving it onto his desk unceremoniously. For a second, he doesn't face his bed. The front door slides closed with a whoosh and he is alone in the room. Alone.

Just to be sure, he calls very softly. "Alfred?" His voice sounds pitiful even to his own ears.

He trudges over to the bathroom and pushes open the door. Empty. Finally, he looks back at his bed. Sheets rumpled. His eyes fall to the floor. Alfred's Nikes are gone.

Arthur swallows. The emotion hits him like a train full-force. Any rational explanation for why Alfred might have left deserts his mind. All he can think is that Alfred did leave and that Alfred probably left because of him. He doesn't want to cry about it, because that would be ridiculous. They've had one date. And he's used to being alone.

But with the cloying smell of food and nobody to eat it, the silence without the TV on, he feels tears gather ridiculously in his eyes. Before he can get that icky feeling, that slimy wet, disgusting feeling of tears trundling downwards, he falls face first onto his pillow. He stays like that for awhile, trying to calm himself. He attempts to get up a few times. His arms still burn from carrying the takeaway so he gives up.

It's pathetic that he can be so derailed like this.

Once, his hand brushes a sheet of paper. Probably some loose schoolwork. He crumples it and uncrumples it in his fist without looking. Finally, he gathers the energy and rolls onto his back to look. It's a note with handwriting.

He doesn't recognize the nasty chicken scratch, but he catches the signature at the bottom, complete with goofy smiley face. Alfred.

...

 _I'm so so so so so so so so sorry! My head chef found out we snuck into the culinary school last night! :( He called me down to yell at me! But I'll be back! Promise! I tried to find you in the cafeteria when I walked out but it was SO crowded. So I went back and wrote this note! Hi!_

 _Btdubs save my food for me, alright? I think you have a mini fridge? Do you have a mini fridge? If not we're investing in a mini fridge. Once again, I'm super sorry! I would have texted you but I couldn't find your number on my phone. **Insert Artie's phone number here **. I'll see you really soon, alright? Try not to be too sad about missing my utter awesomeness. (...i think Gilbert's rubbing off on me...)_

 _:D See you, Alfred._

 _Oh P.S. I saw on your instant queue you're watching American Horror Story. Fuck, that shit is scary. I was thinking we could watch the next episode together? You're slightly ahead of me, but you can bring me up to speed. plus...i'mkindaafraidofwatchingitalone..._

...

Arthur snorts, feeling a smile pull at his face. He knew what they were doing was stupid yesterday, but did anybody listen? Nope. He reaches up and brushes the rest of his tears away, scolding himself for acting so much like a teenage girl.

Well, first things first, he now has more time to tidy himself up. He knows he's far from handsome, but he can at least look presentable.

Arthur approaches bathroom time with a careful realism. Too many people get lost in primping their appearances (coughFranciscough). Usually, they have good reason to do so, being good-looking (coughnotFranciscough). Arthur, however, knows himself quite well, and knows that there's not much he can do to help his appearance.

His hair is hopelessly scruffy. He looks awful with it long and even worse with it short. He can't style it. There's no gel that mankind has yet been able to create to tame Arthur's wily strands. Basically, he keeps it a medium messy length that sometimes falls in his eyes and always sticks up in the back. And the top. And the sides.

Arthur averts his eyes from the mirror then. Of course, that's not the worst part. Anybody who knows him or perhaps anybody that has ever heard is name is familiar with this equation: Arthur Kirkland= Giant eyebrows. He remembers being teased so much one time in primary that he went home determined to find a solution. Obviously, he'd inherited some genetic defect that made him unappealing to everybody ever. His "solution" lay in his mum's makeup box where he proceeded to try and cover his whole forehead with liquid base. As you can imagine, it did not go as planned. From then on, he's been ruefully stubborn about them and most people just pass if off as him being a grouch.

Under the odd bathroom light, his pale skin looks almost blue. Even though he had gotten a good night's sleep before, it doesn't really show under his eyes where torturous black circles still remain. Getting tan doesn't exactly work for him. He's gotten many varying degrees of sunburns and peppered his nose with sprays of freckles, but never a tan. Plus, he loathes heat and altogether finds the indoors to be a much more pleasant environment.

Arthur swallows. He could go on, but it's best if he stops his train of thought there. Deciding he doesn't like the color of today's sweater vest, he heads back to his room to procure a new one. His cell phone is lit up on the dresser. Shelly.

He takes it with him, absently reading her text as he unbuttons his collared shirt.

-R u busy today? We were going to head down to the shoreline and mess around. Think you could come?-

Arthur sends back with a certain amount of pleasure. -Sorry I'm spending time with Alfred.-

-Alfred? Jones? Like the chef at the culinary school the other day?-

Arthur smirks. -Yes.-

-Damn! Arthur! That's awesome! He was super cute! Do you think he likes you?-

-Well, he did ask me out. So I think it's safe to say-

-Arrrthuurrr! Y didn't you tell me earlier? Tht is so so cute! I NEED details.-

Arthur chuckles slightly, shuffling his socked foot on the ground in embarrassment. They're good enough friends that he can imagine her facial expressions. -Later, I promise. I actually have a serious question for you.-

-Go for it.-

-I want to do something nice for him, but I have no idea what. Any suggestions?-

-Where are you now?-

-In my dorm. He'll be meeting me here later... why?-

-God, Arthur, isn't it kind of obvious? You're meeting in your dorm! What do you think he wants to do?-

Arthur frowns in confusion. What could she possibly mean? -I don't follow-

-Do you ever? Srsly. Maybe you should thnk along the lines of what ppl who potentially like each other get up to in rooms alone.-

Arthur gawks at his phone for a minute before carefully setting it down. Now, that's... that's definitely something. He can't say he hasn't thought about it at all. Just, well, currently, he's working on getting Alfred to like him. He doesn't want to accidentally mess it up by suggesting something stupid. What if it turns Alfred off? Maybe Alfred wants to wait for awhile. It is kind of fast.

He worries his lower lip. It would have been easier last night. Maybe under the influence of a little alcohol. If his weak stomach had held up, he might have gotten exactly that. Shelly has put the seed in his mind.

A couple minutes later, there's a knock and Alfred comes skipping through the door eagerly. He holds up a handful of Redbox DVDs, looking proud of himself.

"Latest releases," he explains to Arthur, leaning over to pull out his roommate's Xbox and get them set up. "We're ready for the rest of the day!"

Alfred tips the contents of his pockets out all over Arthur's desk. Popcorn bags and boxes of sour candy, chocolate pretzels. "Man, that was SO lame! He totally chewed our asses off! I never wanted to get out of there so bad."

Arthur swallows nervously, eyeing the mound of junk food.

Alfred doesn't seem to notice, discovering his Chinese in the fridge and setting to work. "You got me a smoothie too? You're the best, Artie!"

"Anything for you," Arthur says with a hint of sarcasm, but only a hint.

Alfred beams back, throwing his box in the microwave. "Come here." He holds out his arms. Arthur makes a show of rolling his eyes, but his feet bring him forward nonetheless. Alfred's hands wrap around, one at the back of his head and the other at the base of his spine. "Man, this is so..." Alfred breathes out happily. "Awesome."

"Is it?" Arthur murmurs, slowly bringing his arms up to wrap around Alfred. He smells nice now. He must have changed before he came back. Arthur can feel his back muscles through his Cougars t-shirt.

"Of course," Alfred teases warmly. "I get to be with you all day. We can do anything we want to."

Arthur's heart begins to thud a bit faster. He blushes. Alfred is so ridiculously sentimental. "What if I turn out to be boring?" He can't help but say it.

Alfred snorts. "You? Never. If anything, you hold back. You hide your awesomeness."

Arthur snorts this time. All the same... in an Alfred way, it is rather sweet. "You know... you know what I want to do, Alfred?"

"What?" Alfred lets go of him to fish his food from the microwave. He plops backwards, swirling up noodles onto his fork with raised eyebrows.

Arthur means to do this in a suave way, but he already knows that it isn't going to work out like that. He runs his fingers through his hair nervously, going to open the drawer of his bedside table.

"OOOoooh."

Arthur jumps, glancing upwards anxiously at Alfred who grins.

"I see where you're going with this." Alfred begins to wolf down his food at a disgusting rate. "Let me finish this first."

Arthur blinks, unwilling to believe it. His life is too full of misunderstandings for Alfred to actually know what he wants to do. "You do?"

"I do." Alfred swallows roughly, taking a giant swig of his smoothie. "I keep my condoms in that drawer too." He pauses to flash such a sultry grin that Arthur is surprised. Here Alfred seemed so good.

"Catcher or pitcher?" Alfred demands and he's practically bouncing up and down as he eats. The excitement glimmers devilishly in his blue eyes making Arthur's heart beat faster. "I could go either, but I'm in the mood to top, if that's alright."

"No... that's... I-I usually bottom." Arthur blushes, still in shock that Alfred is so eager. "You... you want to sleep with me?"

"Since I saw you." Alfred laughs. "Sorry, if I'm such a slut. I swear I haven't slept with anyone since high school. When I saw you, that's just kinda where my thoughts went if I'm being honest."

"O-oh," Arthur doesn't know where to place himself.

Alfred finishes his food at record speed. Instantly, he reaches for Arthur, standing at first. "We do move kinda fast, don't we?" He jokes, holding Arthur to him, his eyes soft. "I haven't even kissed you yet."

Arthur gulps, suddenly realizing what Alfred is going to do. Alfred brushes back a few strands of Arthur's hair. He lets his fingers drift downward to catch under Arthur's chin, very carefully tipping it up. Alfred hesitates for just a moment, before he leans forward. His soft lips meet Arthur's tasting like soy sauce and General Tso's.

It's amazing. The feeling doesn't stop at Arthur's mouth, but travels down to burn at his heart, make the hair on his arms stand up. It tingles at his spine and rests suddenly heavy in his boxers. His breath catches when Alfred pulls back and he leans forward quickly unwilling to break it.

Alfred laughs into Arthur's lips, causing him to kiss and smile at the same time. A breathless joy flows through him, at the way he can feel Alfred's arms cradling him and Alfred's excitement. Alfred pressing his crotch forward.

They break apart this time. Arthur reaches for the drawer, fumbling eagerly. Alfred is shrugging out of his shirt, humming some tune or other.

When Arthur has the condom from the box, he mounts the bed over Alfred who has flopped onto his back. "What are you doing, silly?" he murmurs. "I'm bottoming remember." He holds up the condom. "Don't you need this? Hey... What's that you've got?" Alfred has his face turned away, hands covering his chin. Arthur starts to grin. He reaches forward to pull Alfred's hands away, groaning in exasperation. "Can't you eat that later?"

Alfred's face is covered with cookie crumbs. He furrows his brow defensively. "I saw them over your shoulder. I wanted some." He looks so cute like that. Hair mussed, face smeared with chocolate. Arthur has to laugh.

"Well, I got them for you, dolt."

Alfred's eyebrows raise. "Oh," he swallows. "Thanks."

Arthur shakes his head. "You're going to make me wait now, aren't you?"

"Well..." Alfred cranes his neck. "There's some more, isn't there?"

Arthur reaches over him to grab them, seating himself comfortably on Alfred's chest. He hands them over, rubbing at Alfred's hair fondly. Alfred pauses, tipping his chin up for a kiss. Arthur meets him there and he hears Alfred say lower than a whisper some words perhaps not meant for Arthur's ears. "Damn, I think I love you."


	5. Chapter 5

**hello guys, here's chapter five on Friday as promised. I'm horrible with keeping an update schedule but I shall try for Fridays.**

 **Also, I've put up a new story with a sort of delinquent/punk Arthur that I'm really excited about called Am I The Best You've Ever Had. Please check that out if you've got time! Thanks so much.**

 **much love, doze**

* * *

"I'm ready."

Alfred's lopsided grin makes its reappearance darkened by a couple spots of chocolate in his teeth. Even so, Arthur can't find it in him to think of Alfred as anything less than really bloody attractive. Alfred seems to know this. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

"I believe we were in the middle of something." He attempts to say coyly.

Arthur snorts. From his perch atop Alfred's chest, he can't help feeling a little bit like royalty. "Yes, I remember. You were my slave."

Alfred's nose wrinkles. "Come on, Arthur. Anything but that fantasy. You could be a little more creative."

Arthur rolls his eyes. Catching jokes is not Alfred's strong suit. He has all the subtlety of a brick. "Oh? And what's your wonderful idea?"

"You can be an alien on Mars and I could stumble into you with my rocket ship." Alfred takes a moment to wink in an exaggerated motion. "Or... You could be King Kong and I'll be the building!"

Arthur shudders, placing his hand forcefully over Alfred's mouth. There'll be none of that ever if he has any say. "Stop it this moment, Alfred. You are forbidden from coming up with fantasies." He feels the corners of Alfred's lips pull down in a pout beneath his fingertips. He has to work a bit harder to retain his passive expression. Alfred looks so ludicrously disappointed. Feeling the soft edge of Alfred's cheek, Arthur looks up through his lashes seriously. "As things are, I'd much rather just be us right now."

Alfred's eyebrows lift. He pulls Arthur's hands down from his face so that Arthur can see his brilliant smile. "Yeah, me too. Just us."

He reaches for Arthur's chin, pulling him gently down into a long slow kiss. Arthur lets his fingers tangle in Alfred's golden strands, feeling his heart start to pick up. "Mmmm..." Alfred murmurs, removing his hands from Arthur's waist to point randomly. "Condom."

Arthur leans up over him, jerking the drawer open and coming back with the familiar square. Alfred takes it, grinning in a predatory way. "I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to sentence you to the bottom from now on, Mr. Kirkland. Give up your throne."

Arthur heaves a pretend groan. "Must I?"

Before he can even think, Alfred grabs him around the middle flipping him to his back. Arthur lets out an ungraceful yelp, causing Alfred to giggle. His nose scrunches mirthfully. Catching Arthur's sour look, he shakes his head. "You're funny."

Before he can retort, Alfred accommodates him, wiggling his fingers behind Arthur's head so that he can cradle it. Alfred starts to kiss along Arthur's jaw line, almost seeming to rumble as he does it. An odd thought causes Arthur's lips to quirk. It's like a lion's purr.

"You have been dethroned." Alfred pronounces royally, pecking him on the mouth. "Don't worry. I still love you and your peasant self."

Arthur's breath hitches. Love?

Alfred doesn't notice though, returning to his leisurely way of romancing. At his touch, Arthur only closes his eyes. He knows he's not being a very attentive partner, but under the influence of Alfred's affection it's too difficult not to melt. His arms hang loosely around Alfred's waist. Chin tilted upwards. He's certain that he must have the most ridiculous 'come hither' expression. Luckily, Alfred is too busy to really see. Arthur sprawls lazily and allows Alfred his way. Alfred initiates

and he accepts.

Alfred doesn't make a fuss about his utter bonelessness like he expects. He seems to enjoy discovering Arthur's sensitive spots, the ones that make him gasp or moan. The pattern develops slowly with Alfred pausing at each particular spot. The warmth of his breath and the ghost of his tongue tickle along with all the intent of sending Arthur's emotions flaring. Then, Alfred does something that surprises him.

It's less of a hug and more of a nuzzle and something so fundamentally Alfred that, though it takes Arthur by surprise, is all the more welcomed. Alfred half bear hugs him, cupping Arthur's head under his chin. There's really nothing sexual about it. He does it quickly like he's been building up to it and he's nervous for the outcome.

The goofy half hug starts Alfred laughing. Alfred breathes in the smell of Arthur's shampoo and feels the tickle of his pale gold hair. He harrumphs happily and falls backwards.

Just as suddenly as Arthur was on the bottom, he's on the top. Alfred holds him in an embrace like a teddy bear, and he's not entirely sure how to feel about it.

"Alfred?" He says finally. "What are you doing?"

"Getting ready."

"Ready for what?"

"This." Alfred laughs. "Everything... You."

Arthur blushes. "Wh-what?"

"Nothing, nothing... I just..." He laughs again. "I really want to be here right now. You know that feeling you get where you just... know you're in the right place?"

Arthur says nothing, listening to Alfred's fast breathing.

Alfred chuckles. He sits up, letting Arthur fall onto his back. "I'll get on with it. Enough of my philosophizing, sealing the moment garbage. What can I say? My brother loves Nicholas Sparks."

He wiggles out of his shirt, ripping open the condom package with his teeth. After a moment of deliberation, Alfred sets the condom aside. He reaches for Arthur pulling him into a sitting position. They kiss again and it brings Arthur's scattered thoughts back together. Particularly, to rest on the fact that his arousal hadn't gone away.

Alfred's fingers start to work underneath his shirt, even as Arthur gladly runs his fingers down the length of Alfred's back. When he presses, he can feel the corded muscles. If he lets his hands slip lower near Alfred's hips, Alfred is softer and more vulnerable. Arthur almost grins thinking of Lizzy's past words. " "I don't know how they're not thirty pounds heavier." Even these thoughts are with a burning affection. At the moment, he thinks he could like anything about Alfred.

Then Alfred stops.

At first, Arthur thinks it's another one of his goofy serenades and groans. It'll take awhile to get used to all these grand romantic gestures, certainly. He pulls back raising his eyebrows at Alfred, allowing more than a little impatience to settle in his posture. But Alfred isn't looking at his face.

He has Arthur's sweater vest pushed gently upwards so that it just covers his nipples. His other hand cups at Arthur's side, looking quite large as he easily palms around it. He moves his thumb back and forth over one of Arthur's ribs. Arthur frowns and for just a second, he doesn't understand. He forgets. His thick brows furrow in confusion, green eyes tentatively uncertain. Is there something wrong with him?

Alfred drops his hand from Arthur's side to rest it softly in the hollow of his belly.

Then, he remembers. Alfred doesn't see what he sees.

Arthur jerks back, feeling suddenly caught when Alfred's hand remains taut around his shirt. "Alfred!" he spits.

Alfred looks up, blue eyes full of confusion. His hand slips and Arthur gets away.

Arthur doesn't know what to do with himself, tugging his shirt down violently. His face is burning beyond belief. He scrambles until his back hits the vanity and he stays there, scowling.

"Arthur..." Alfred finally begins slowly. It's torture waiting for him to get all the words out. He picks at the sheets with long tan fingers. "Why... why are you so thin?"

Lies blur through his mind with such rapid speed that he doesn't have time to land on any one of them. Alfred looks so stupid sitting there with his mouth open like that. What does he know about anything? "That's rich coming from you," He snarls. "Why are you so fat?"

It's the first thing that comes to his mind. He instantly feels horrible about it. He doesn't think Alfred is fat. Alfred is perfect. Alfred can eat whatever he wants.

Alfred's mouth drops further and color rises to his tanned cheeks. "Come on, Arthur," he says angrily. "I'm not stupid. I knew you were skinny, but Jesus Christ. Your ribs stick out!"

"You're not stupid? That's news to me. People only like you because you're a giant idiotic loudmouth that makes them feel better about their own mediocre intelligence. You didn't notice?" Arthur sneers, his heart galloping. He's diverting. It's such a panicked attempt that he's sure it won't work.

Alfred swallows. "Arthur... I'm not trying to-"

"I'm fine, Alfred!" Arthur blows up. "Even if there was something wrong, you would never be able to help. You're an utter invalid. I wouldn't ask you to help me tie my shoe."

Alfred flinches, genuine hurt crossing his features. He stumbles for a second, frowning. "If you thought that, why did you go out with me?"

"I didn't have the heart to turn down the boy who hasn't had a lay since high school." He growls. "There. Happy? I've pitied you. You can get the hell out." Arthur is breathing hard. His hands are clenched into fists behind him. This is what happens. This is what happens when he forgets himself and loses control of a situation. People end up asking questions.

Alfred stands, beginning to look angry. "You're shitting me. You've got to be shitting me right now. I show one iota of concern for your well being and you freak the fuck out! Fucking shit, Arthur! No one else is around to ask!"

"I don't need anyone to ask! Especially not you, with all the finesse of a blind elephant. Get out." Arthur snaps. "Go back to your parties and your friends and your fan club. I don't think I can stand one more second basking in the rays of your utter incompetence."

"Fine." Alfred throws his hands up. "Fine. Be that way. I tried to be nice to you. I'll get my whale sized ass out of your face. You obviously have everything figured out." He grabs his shirt and sends him a salute at the door. "Sorry for over staying my welcome, King Arthur. I'll make sure to never care again."

Alfred slams the door in a temper. He's easily worked up. It's something Arthur guessed about him. He knows it was the fastest way to get Alfred out, but all the same his heart plummets when the dust settles.

He straightens up, smoothing his shirt. For a minute, none of his emotion shows on his face. His fingers become fascinated with straightening the stacks of his textbooks. A swipe of his hand brings back a print of gray dust. Arthur clucks his tongue distastefully, heading to fetch a tissue. Once his finger is clean, he persists in dusting down the rest of the desk. His footsteps wander to his roommate's side, make his bed, straighten his books.

The silence around Arthur is broken only by the hum of the heater vent. He steps forward to rid himself of a dusty tissue and notices the opened, but unused condom on the ground. He doesn't want to think about where he went wrong. Obviously at the point where he thought he would ever be able to have sex with Alfred. Arthur swallows tersely, bending to crush the condom in his fist and toss it in the waste bin.

Looking around the empty room, his eyes fall on Alfred's pile of junk food. A sneer curls his lip, but at the same time his vision starts to blur. Arthur turns on his heel, grabbing the waste bin and begins fanatically shoving all of the packages in, like he is damning his enemies to hell. When the bin is full, his hands shake. He loses his temper and throws it against the wall.

"Fuck, Alfred!" He shouts in exasperation, almost laughing at his own stupidity, though it's hardly funny. "You blasted nosy i-idiot."

When his voice catches, he knows it's no use. Arthur collapses on the ground with a rough sigh, grounding his fists into his eyes. Like he can press the tears back into his head, his brain, that dark corner he likes to keep dark things in.

If he had just thought of this beforehand, Alfred would still be here. They could be watching movies. But he had to let his desire get the better of him. Goddamn, he didn't even think. Of what Alfred would see. Blind Alfred, just like the rest of them. Missing the point.

Arthur threads his fingers through his hair, tugging viciously. It's probably better that this happened when it did. Though Arthur's hopes were high, he foresees them being much higher in the future. The crush would have been more devastating.

He tries to use that to lighten his mood, but it doesn't help. He knows that if he had just used his fucking mind he could have avoided the whole catastrophe in the first place. It was his idea. Carefully, he wraps his arms around his middle, feeling sick.

All he can see is the look on Alfred's face, like Alfred spoke his thoughts aloud. Alfred doesn't want to sleep with him.

Slowly, Arthur gets to his feet. He begins struggling out of his shirt, his trousers too. A few minutes later he's dressed in a baggy t-shirt and a pair of basketball shorts that he has to tie rather tightly to stay on. He gets his trainers, fumbling multiple times to get the laces right. He jogs down his dorm hall, down the stairs.

Once he gets outside, he's racing. The burn in his legs is immediate. It starts before he even makes it out of the building, but he feels relief as the burn pulls his thoughts away from Alfred. It's leadening and it hurts, but he needs it. He can make his body obey him. This he can control. Any extra calories from that pastry the other day are ticking away in Arthur's mind. It gives him a delirious sense of satisfaction.

He can forget about Alfred. Alfred would never want him, anyway.

0 0 0

"Hi Arthur," Shelly smiles brightly at him as she takes her usual seat in their French history class. The room sparkles dimly with gray Seattle light and Shelly's hair glimmers particularly warm and chocolatey against it. Arthur watches her fish around in her bag for a moment. There's still ten or so minutes before class starts. Once it gets nearer Francis will arrive to bother him and distract her. Right now, she holds out her assignment to him, hoping to get a comparison on his answers. Their professor encourages this kind of intellectual banter.

"Hi Shelly," He murmurs, leaning down to grab at his bookbag. He grits his teeth as his back muscles contract agonizingly. Walking today had been a giant pain. He'd had to stop and sit at a park bench to catch his breath. Getting to lean back in the cushioned auditorium chairs had been a glorious relief until she showed up. Silly girl. Always unwittingly causing him problems.

He hands over his assignment, trying not to betray any of his discomfort.

But she grins. "Work out too hard?" She's teasing. They both are more of the casual college goers who get peer pressured into using the weight room. Or at least she is, but he enjoys having someone to talk to.

"Perhaps," Arthur allows her a small smile. He settles back into his seat gratefully. For a minute, he concentrates on relaxing. His muscles seem perfectly spiteful when they continue to cramp. To make sure, she doesn't start asking questions, he heads her off. "How was the ocean?"

"Green. Like everything." She shakes her head. "Wish you could have come. You would have listened to my crazy roommate stories. Everyone else just wanted to build bonfires and smoke pot."

Arthur snorts dryly. "Part of living in Washington, I suppose."

Shelly laughs again. "Studying abroad is the best and worst decision I've ever made."

Arthur nods, feeling like he couldn't possibly agree more.

"Hey..." Shelly suddenly smirks. Her chocolate eyes start to sparkle. He opens his mouth to quickly ask her another question, but this time she heads him off. "So, how'd it go?"

Arthur scowls and her smirk widens. She's getting to know him too well. He immediately knows what she's talking about, but because he enjoys being difficult growls, "How did what go?"

"You know," Shelly groans. "Hunky culinary student with the tan! Come on! Arthur, you can't be serious. What else would I be asking about? Your collection of 19th century doorknobs?"

"18th century," he says snobbishly. He considers going on a two hour discourse on the different styles of metal work, but her eyes are too focused. She won't drop it. She's too persistent for that. Arthur puts on a regretful air. "Alfred's not my type."

Shelly's thin eyebrows disappear in her flyaway bangs. "Uh... really? You seemed pretty psyched about it earlier." She states suspiciously.

"Jumped the gun," He shrugs with a gusty sigh. "I put too much hope into it, I guess. There was really no rhyme or reason. I'm sometimes silly like that."

Shelly doesn't look entirely convinced and obviously wants to ask more questions. But no sooner has Francis walked through the door in nearly late fashion than the professor opens up for his lecture.

Arthur for once is grateful for French history as it provides him a chance to focus on something else. He buries his nose in the text, intent to line out the dates and political context of the particular time period. He traces out a complex outline in his notes, jotting down not only the important information, but facts that interest him. He finds that this generally helps with the picking of paper topics later on in the year.

The only mar on the perfect academic atmosphere (well other than the Frenchiness) is that he can feel Shelly continue to watch him. Really, and she wonders why she has a hard time in classes. Her mind is full of bloody delusions. He looks over at her and raises an eyebrow, intent to cut any rumors off at their source. She gives him a half-hearted smile, that practically promises she will be needing to see his notes later. He shakes his head in exasperation.

Eventually, she turns her attention back to the professor. Seeing Arthur act so Arthur-like is only a reassurance. Arthur breathes a sigh to himself, only to find that the notes before him are no longer holding his interest like before. His concentration seems blotchy. He still feels exhausted from the other day. In his head, he knows he took the running thing a bit far. He's never run for two straight hours before and never... well... never with nothing in his system. He fidgets with his pencil.

An image of Alfred's wide-eyed confusion as he holds Arthur's shirt up replaces the illustration of Louis XIX's court in his textbook. Why are you so thin?

Arthur swallows hard. He sort of wishes he hadn't reacted so harshly. Now... there's just not much chance of him ever seeing Alfred again. The thought brings a lump to his throat that horrifies him. He had thought he had got all the tears out last night. Yet here he is tearing up over the French Revolution and Francis is shooting him looks. Arthur swears to god if the class doesn't end soon he will bloody beat the retarded frog for thinking he'd get so worked up over a guillotine in dusty pages.

When the professor releases them, Arthur doesn't stay to ask questions. He stumbles to his feet, ignoring the black blotches though they make him pause as they flash over his vision. Once they're gone, he shoulders his bag and flees with his head low. He makes it about halfway down the stairs leaning heavily against the railing when Shelly waylays him. Damn her.

"Arthur! Wait!" She catches up with him like he's going slow. He scowls wondering when his skills of determining speed had deserted him. He's sure breathing like he's going fast.

"What Shelly?" He snaps at her, causing her to pause. He prays that she'll leave him alone to be grouchy. She's known to do that every once in awhile. Peppy girl like her needed peppy friends anyway. Not grouchy stodgers like him.

Same with Alfred. There must be something wrong with him if he's so intent to surround himself with such happy people, Arthur thinks in exasperation. Really, they're nothing like him. He should definitely seek out some equilibrium in his friendships from now on.

"Arthur, what's the matter?" She asks flat out, drawing him back from his thoughts with a jerk.

When she reaches out to put a hand on him, he shrugs it off irritably. She has her suspicions, but he is in no mood to accept her sympathy right now... her pity, actually. He groans, merely walking a bit faster. "There's nothing the matter, Shelly. I'm sore from running. I've got a headache. All around I feel like shit. Is that enough for you?"

Shelly lips twitch downwards in that thoughtful way. She tries to read him, but his green eyes are chillingly blank. "Did Alfred break it off with you?"

Arthur's expression remains neutral, but inwardly he sneers. Of course, she would assume that Alfred broke it off. "It just didn't work okay. I wanted it to work," he says that with some measure of reluctance. Anything close to the truth is

something he'd rather avoid, even if it burns at his throat at times demanding to be released. Arthur is determined that the only audience that receives it will be his pillow at night. "It didn't work," He continues forcefully, focusing on how annoyed he is, how in pain, how frustrated. "I apologize if you were expecting some grand fiasco. Alfred is not compatible with me. I don't regret it." His voice lowers just slightly, in a warning, one that she rams right over.

"Arthur..." She groans. "There's something you're not telling me, and it's really annoying."

He nearly laughs. Oh, it's annoying her, is it? Arthur throws his self control in the trash. "You're right," He snarls, voice ringing with discordant sarcasm. A delicious sense of satisfaction sends his heart pounding at her startled look. "There's something I'm not telling you. In fact, there's many things that I don't tell you. How could that possibly be? Let's use those critical thinking skills. I know there's a smart girl in there somewhere, even if she persistently coasts off of me in every class we have together. Struggling? Well, why don't I just give you the answer like always? It's all I'm good for in your mind. Let's see. What are some logical reasons Arthur wouldn't spill his guts to such an airheaded ninny? I think personal privacy is a decent answer. Very obvious, but I'm willing to give you a handicap pass, if only because you never think that far."

"Stop it, Arthur," She looks disgusted, also shocked, but mainly disgusted. "I'm only trying to help." The expression brings him some kind of justification. There, now she sees it. Now, she sees him. Now, she can leave him alone. To hell with helping him. He doesn't need help. They've about reached Myers Hall by this point.

Though she doesn't say anything the rest of the way, her presence is irksome to him, like an itch he can't reach. He knows that if she even breathes the wrong way he'll explode and the lack of control associated is making him antsy.

A warm rush of air greets him along with the cloying, sickening smell of a bustling lunch hall when they enter. She immediately deserts him to seek other company. He watches her stiff back disappear into the crowd with a sneer. That's right. Leave, he thinks. That's just what he wanted anyway.

Standing alone in the crowd, the smells and the crush of bodies start to overwhelm him. His already pounding headache reaches a climax and he stumbles urgently for a table, knowing that if he doesn't put his head down and now, he will collapse. The greasy plastic meets his cheek, his bag cluttering to the ground and spilling all his books. Arthur is having a hard time breathing. The whole place smells like the inside of a garbage bin. The heat from the various stovetops crowds in on him, crushes him. He closes his eyes.

He wants to just die right now. Really he does. It's admittedly a low point, but he's falling asleep right here in the fucking dining hall and it's such a blessing to get away.

"Arthur, there you are! This is not our usual table!"

Arthur groans, slamming his fist into the tabletop. Goddamn, this professor is his personal hell. He takes a huge breath and with what he deems incredible restraint draws himself into a sitting position.

Germaine simply quirks a smile. "Bad breakup?"

He's only kidding, but it's nearly enough to send Arthur over the edge and punching his stupid face off.

"Tired." He offers ineloquently, not trusting himself to say more.

"I'll get us our food then." The professor says it to be kind, but Arthur is only grateful for the fact that he can slump back over when the man is gone. He wonders idly what Alfred is doing right now. Probably getting lunch with a crowd of raucous people, the kind of people that make Arthur sick in the first place. He should be glad he doesn't have to deal with those kinds of annoyances anymore. With Alfred, they would surely never cease.

When Professor Germaine courteously sets a burger and chips before him, all he can do is stare. Usually, he can muster a few bites. Sometimes, he can finish a whole plate. (Of course, it then more often than not ends up in his toilet drain.) Today, his stomach rolls with force, and he realizes he can't do it. Not even one bite. He can't.

Truthfully, he's been sickened by himself for a very long time. Even he can't explain why exactly it comes down to this. But he can't eat it. The word 'can't' echoes in his brain like an alarm. It locks him up, makes him stiff. His already harrowed system goes on full alert. Any prodding and he will lash out.

Professor Germaine watches him. "Eat, Arthur. No theatrics today."

The gall, Arthur's lip curls into a sneer. He wants to see theatrics, does he?Without the least consideration for future consequences, Arthur releases his last bit of hold on his substantial temper. In his arrogance the other day, he had utilized (controlled) Alfred's temper to his own benefit (disaster?).

Arthur in his own right, however, is very much aware that his temper burns that much hotter. As if to fuel him on, his thoughts echo with the memory of Alfred slamming the door, like it was both forever ago and earlier the other day. Arthur stands, flipping his hand upward in time with the sound and sending his plate flying. He'll show Germaine theatrics.

"I don't need your help! I don't need help!" He bursts out. "You nosy old bastard! What makes you think this could help?" There are several people watching, but he doesn't care. He reaches to grab his backpack only to feel the full weight of it and give it up as a lost cause. He's pretty sure his dramatic exit will never be as vicious as Alfred's. Germaine doesn't actually care about him. It won't stab his heart or wrench his gut. He might be able to manage majestic, disdainful, sweeping from the room in rancorous hostility. But his head still spins. Seeing Professor Germaine's frown throws him off. In his panic, he stumbles for the lifts, slamming the button with his fist. The professor does not call him back.

As soon as the doors close and he's alone, the building bubble in his chest bursts. Last night's tears pool and puddle in his eyes. They're last night's tears because they were supposed to be confined to last night. He refuses to admit he's lost control enough to let them appear now. Oh how he mourns the utter loss of decorum. "I have fallen from grace," he says aloud, trying to makes himself laugh. It fails miserably.

His breathing hiccups. He feels like suck a weakling. When had he started to become dependent on Alfred's carefree tomfoolery? His knees tremble and he allows them to give, sinking to the floor. Arthur chides himself mentally. He's always taken things much too seriously. He's acting like promises of a person he met a week ago could possibly be kept, let alone meant.

Arthur hugs his knees to his chest, gasping. When the doors open again, he forces himself to stand, though every muscle in his body protests. He needs to lay down. God, he can't function right now.

Arthur gets to his room, stumbling for the bed. He barely makes it before he passes out.

The last damn thing he thinks is how twin beds can be particularly big and lonely places without someone else around to fill the empty spaces. Pulling at his particularly baggy button up, he scoots to the very edge, vision smudging with black. His fingers trace circles against one of his ribs. Alfred should have been happy, he thinks. There's plenty of room for him this way.

Arthur swallows, eyes itching, turning his face into his pillow. There's plenty of room for him here.


	6. Chapter 6

**Hey all! Thanks for all the lovely support. Here is a giantass old author's note for any clarifications! Enjoy, haha.**

 _ **~Old Author's Note:**_

 _ **1\. I'm going to put this bluntly: When you have an eating disorder, you lie. Expecting Arthur to be truthful isn't realistic and expecting everyone all the time to catch that he is lying also isn't realistic. That people suspect happens, what they do with that knowledge brings me to my third point...**_

 _ **2\. Characters don't always make the right decisions. (yeah, yeah I know, obvious) But I'm adding that in, because well-meaning characters (coughAlfredcough) are characters too, with concerns about looking stupid and being wrong. When you're dating someone for the first time, you want to come across a certain way. I'm sure you can relate. Perhaps that means liked over actually helpful? I try to capture that in Alfred's early decisions regarding Arthur.**_

 _ **That's about all. Some of my story nuances are subtle. I just didn't want anyone to get the wrong idea. Thanks so much! -doze**_

 _ **Also CLARIFICATION about American college: If you live in America, you probably don't need to read this. Most colleges require you to pick a major (ie area of study) by the end of sophomore (2nd) year. There are four years in college, generally. The first two are spent doing general ed and the next are usually specializing in your subject. I know that it's different from UK universities as well as universities in other countries. Arthur is a junior (3rd year) in college. He is majoring in history. He has one year left after the current one. Alfred is in an untraditional school. He is not in college. He attends a culinary school that educates for three years. He is in his final year. After that, he will graduate and seek employment at a restaurant.**_

* * *

Arthur wakes to the steady sound of rain showers. His hair is stuck to his forehead with sweat and the room is unbearably freezing. He wrestles with the covers for a minute before collapsing back, winded. Across the room, his roommate is breathing loudly, openmouthed and half snoring.

Even though his headache still throbs, he now feels wide awake. It's not as late as it seems amidst the darkness of the storm. The alarm clock, now jauntily perched in its proper place, informs him that it is 5 AM. Arthur sighs. He slept through one of his classes yesterday, and he didn't even begin on the homework from the first. After collapsing from his little tirade in the dining hall, he'd only woken once or twice. Even then, he had just rolled over and called it up for bollocks.

It's Wednesday. As soon as the thought enters his mind, all he wants to do is sleep. God, it's Wednesday. He has Professor Germaine's class today. He doesn't think he can maturely face a professor that he splattered with hamburger meat and chips. Arthur groans, burrowing his face into his pillow.

He's still in his clothes from the other day and feeling stale for it. He's about to just call it a day and never open his eyes again. The soft rushing of the rain is soothing. It reminds him of England. Secretly, he knows that's why he chose Seattle over any other place he could have studied abroad. There is at least something to remind him of home when he is feeling down. Not that he isn't grateful. He's out of his parents' nosy household and has been for awhile.

Arthur listens to the deep roll of thunder, appreciating it for its muted rumble. Not too loud. He's thankful that the universe seems to be accommodating him for the time being.

Several hours later, Arthur forces himself up with his roommate. They don't really speak, having found by now that neither is really a morning person. Their mutual agreement keeps Arthur's headache from worsening. He downs some ibuprofen in the hopes that it'll fade back behind his eyes. Currently, he feels as if his whole head is pulsing.

As Arthur enters the bathroom for his turn, he hears his roommate open the front door to leave for work. There's a minute of silence. Arthur doesn't hear his retreating footsteps.

"Arthur, your bag's out here." He says, but he seems to have hesitated a long time just to come to that conclusion.

"Drag it in, will you?" Arthur growls, cupping his hands with warm water and splashing it over his cheeks.

He hears the sound of his bag being dragged and then silence. Arthur wonders why his roommate is still hanging around.

"You're going to be late for work," Arthur prods, seeking to be alone.

"Alright, alright, I'm going." He hears the mumbled reply. "Take care of yourself, man."

Arthur frowns when the door thuds shut. That's an odd parting. They usually don't even speak. After he gets changed into a fresh set of clothes, he heads to his bed to contemplate the problem before him. He supposes he'll have to go to Professor Germaine's class. There's not really much of another option. Arthur hopes that he can just slip into the back and be done with it, but it's a relatively small class. He's bound to be noticed.

He gives his bag a moody kick and something yellow tumbles off of it. Frowning, Arthur bends to grab the slip of paper. At first, he doesn't understand it. Today's date is written at the top along with the time of ten thirty. A loopy swirly signature and peppy smiley face glisten in purple ink at the bottom. He doesn't recognize the name. A small note written in the same hand adorns the back.

Hello Mr. Kirkland,

This is Nurse Shanemeyer. I'll be stopping by your room later next morning to do a couple checkups as I've been informed that you haven't been feeling well. Please be in your dorm room at the time below as I have to check on another student in your hall at that time. Hopefully, we can get you right back on your feet.

Arthur feels like his stomach has dropped out of his body. He clenches the yellow slip in his fist, furious. Professor Germaine was true to his word.

Without stopping to think, he shoves on his loafers and grabs his coat. Like hell he'll be in his room at ten thirty. See how she takes that, ignorant twat. Arthur can feel himself shaking as he charges out of his dorm like a wrathful spirit.

The breeze hits him like ice. He is so frazzled that he forgets to throw up his hood when he gets out in the rain. He doesn't even notice as the water soaks his hair and streams down his neck. His heart burns with an inexplicable desire to get away. There's no one around that understands.

Alfred… Alfred is gone.

Arthur scowls as the idiot pops into his head uninvited. It's undeniable how awful he still feels and he just can't get rid of it. Arthur's fists clench as he dashes around the corner in blind panic. He'll hide in the library. Just for precaution, he'll avoid his usual spot.

The solace of the musty books and the feeling by the heater vent fill his mind with longing. He could even sleep. God, he wants to go back to sleep. He's so tired. Even after yesterday's record setting seventeen hour nap, he feels like he could sleep for another three days. Of course, it also reminds him how useless and unproductive he is.

Arthur is walking so fast not paying attention that he collides with someone on the pavement.

"Sorry, sorry," he growls, brushing past impatiently as he rights himself. He was nearly knocked off his feet.

"Arthur?"

Arthur jolts, looking back over his shoulder in disbelief. Alfred seems just as surprised to see him. A scowl mars Arthur's features. Honestly, why is he so surprised? The idiot. Their campuses are meters away.

Alfred shifts on his feet and his expression slips from surprised to embarrassed. He switches his umbrella to his other hand—Batman patterned Arthur notes wryly but is too mortified to see any humor in the situation.

"Arthur," Alfred begins again. His voice grates on Arthur's ears. Arthur can't stand to have this conversation so he hurries to interrupt. He's rubbish at nothing more than he's rubbish at apologies.

"I have to be going. I have a class." He lies, already taking off. His heart thunders in his ears as he half-runs to get away from Alfred.

"Arthur, wait!" Alfred jogs to catch him, falling into step by his side.

Arthur sends him a withering look that would have made even the bravest suitor quail. It's somewhat marred by the fact

that he's dripping wet. He watches Alfred visibly gather his courage and hold out the umbrella so that it covers Arthur's head.

"You're soaked," he says in exasperated affection.

Arthur scowls harder. He doesn't have time for this. "Well, that isn't going to do much good now." He tries to duck out from under the umbrella, but Alfred darts after him like a stubborn puppy dog.

"Come on, Arthur," he pleads, "I was coming to talk to you anyway. I know we fought the other day, but I thought I could make up for it!"

Arthur gives him an absolutely incredulous stare that has Alfred hurrying to finish, afraid he'll be interrupted. "I mean, I wasn't being very considerate and we both said some dumb things." Alfred laughs nervously, "I had to take some time to get my thoughts together, but I know you didn't mean that stuff. I'm really sorry, and I didn't want to wait a long time and have this fester." He pauses to wrestle in his pocket for a moment, before producing two beat up slips of paper. "Movie? I've got tickets for six o'clock."

Arthur can't bring himself to answer for a minute, utterly floored. Alfred wants to... talk? For some reason, he still can't get past that. Why is Alfred seeking him out? Sure, they fought. But it was more than fighting. They'd given up. Arthur had, at least.

Slowly, Arthur shakes his head. "Why... why are you still talking to me?" It's not a graceful way of asking, but Alfred doesn't look hurt or angry, just confused.

"We're dating," he says carefully. "Of course, I'd come apologize." He pauses suddenly, looking mortified. "Wait, we are dating, right? I was pretty sure we were."

"Were." Arthur emphasizes. "We... we fell out yesterday. I thought we were done." His eyes flicker up to Alfred who looks shocked. He slowly lets the hand holding the movie tickets fall to his side.

"What? You want to break up?" Alfred's brow furrows. "We fought. I bothered you. I do that with my brother every day. Do you... do you not want to see me anymore?"

Arthur's breath catches. Alfred is giving him another chance. He feels almost giddy. His pride luckily slaps him into shape before his desperation drives him into something stupid. Today has been such an awful day, but already he can see it being so much better with Alfred.

He's relieved when he doesn't really have to say anything at all. Alfred's discomfort melts away as he watches Arthur shift from foot to foot. "You feel the same way." He laughs. "Duh, I knew you would."

Alfred throws an arm around him like they've known each other forever. Alfred has a way of relating to people like that. "You look exhausted." The protective tone in his voice breaks Arthur's last defenses and he sags into Alfred's side.

"I'm sorry," he apologizes, oddly enough because he wants to. "I'm just... I've been so stressed. Please... I didn't mean to yell at you like that."

"I know." Alfred shakes him teasingly. "You sure know how to bite my head off like nobody's business."

Arthur blushes, but Alfred laughs. "It's alright, Arthur. You can yell at me if you need to, if it makes you feel better."

Arthur nearly flinches. Incidentally, it makes him feel worse when he yells at Alfred. "No," he insists, clearing his throat. He will be mature about this. "I know that I overreacted. I didn't have any reason to get so angry with you. I just... I don't like..." He struggles to say what he means. He doesn't like to talk about what he weighs really, but just saying that seems a little impossible.

Luckily, Alfred understands. He bites his lip like he's nervous before saying, "You do eat, don't you, Arthur?"

Arthur swallows, looking down at his feet. The questions, always the questions. "Of course. I've... I've had problems in the past, but I'm working on it. There's nothing to worry about. It's just a sensitive subject."

Alfred doesn't look entirely convinced, but he bobs his head. "Okay," he says. He has decided to accept it. He doesn't believe it, but he accepts it and that's good enough for Arthur.

"I think you need some sleep," Alfred comments perceptively. "Why don't you go back to your dorm? I'll come by later after I finish up some stuff at school."

At the mention of his dorm, all manner of rejection runs through Arthur's posture. He tenses and shakes his head. "I'm going to the library."

Alfred frowns irritably. "Arthur, you're soaked and freezing and you need sleep. You need to-"

"No," Arthur interrupts adamantly. "No, I can't go back to the dorm."

Alfred raises his eyebrows. "Why, then?"

"I just- I can't." Arthur says desperately, willing him to understand.

Alfred exhales, glancing down the street in frustration. He's running late now. "Arthur, please just tell me. Is someone making you do something you don't want to do?"

Arthur blinks in surprise at the question. How did Alfred arrive at that idea? As much as he doesn't want to answer, he also realizes how badly he wants someone to talk to.

His uncertainty must show on his face, because Alfred suddenly reaches out brushing Arthur's fingers with his own. "You can trust me." Arthur doesn't realize just what the phrase means to Alfred- how as Alfred says it his eyes tell how he feels. I want you to trust me.

"I," Arthur gulps, throwing caution to the wind. "One of the professors is forcing me to see a nurse."

Arthur's eyes flick quickly over Alfred's features, gauging his reactions. At first, Alfred is surprised, then concerned, then uncertain. "You don't want to see a nurse?"

"I'm not sick." Arthur forces the tremor from his voice, even manages an ironical smile.

Alfred isn't convinced. He bites his lip, glancing down the street again. "What if I come with you?"

Arthur is mildly surprised by the offer, but all the same it doesn't matter. "I don't want to go. I'm fine."

Alfred isn't convinced. Arthur feels his chest begin to tighten. He wants to ask questions, argue. Arthur can feel himself coiling inward, preparing to lash out. But then Alfred breathes out, bobbing his head much like before. "Okay," he says. "How can I help you?"

"You can bloody move and let me get to the library." Arthur stumbles out in shock. Help him?

"No can do," Alfred retorts, tugging him stubbornly closer. "You look exhausted. You'll sleep if I have to make you."

Arthur rolls his eyes. That's certainly not necessary. If they stand here long enough, he might fall asleep.

"I have a question." Alfred continues thoughtfully, making Arthur's stomach drop. Again with the questions. "Has the nurse ever met you before?"

Arthur tenses, not seeing where this is going. "No."

"Do you think she knows what you look like?"

"No, but it doesn't matter." Arthur snaps back, quickly. "She knows where my dorm room is."

"That's fine. I've got an idea." Alfred offers him a grin. His eyes gleam with some harebrained scheme that has Arthur's stomach flipping. Nothing that is about to come out of his mouth will be good. But after a second, the grin slowly fades from his lips. "You have to promise me something, though."

"Wh-what?"

"That if you ever need help you'll ask for it." Alfred says seriously.

Arthur raises his eyebrows in surprise. "Of course."

That's common sense.

0 0 0

After hearing Alfred's plan for the nurse, Arthur feels both good and anxious. Good, because Alfred is on his side. Anxious, because if the nurse happens to catch them, he is so screwed.

As Arthur worries at a loose string on his sweatshirt, Alfred emerges from Arthur's bathroom with a towel over his head. They've both changed into dry clothes, Arthur giving Alfred permission to steal some of his roommate's dirty sweats. With Alfred looking so relaxed and comfy, he's even given himself permission to look a little sloppy- a sweatshirt and a pair of his tattered pajama pants. He quickly (thankfully) finds that it does nothing to lessen Alfred's affection.

Catching sight of Arthur with his legs neatly tucked under him, all the covers arranged in perfect place, and a small indulging mug of tea steaming on the side table, Alfred breaks out into a predatory grin. Any sign of organization and Alfred just has to break it for chaos.

"No, Alf-

He grunts as Alfred half-tackles him, smothering his face with the towel. "You're still wet, Arthur?" He teases. "What's up with that?"

"Get off of me, you wanker!" Arthur swears ineloquently, swatting at him and failing to get the towel out of his face. "The nurse will be here any second and here you look like you're on steroids."

Alfred leans back, dropping the towel and smirking. Arthur meets him with a rather battered scowl, hair flying all of everywhere. "You just want me to move because I'm ruining your perfection."

"My perfection?" Arthur says incredulously.

"Sure, your symmetry. Your aesthetically pleasing design. Your tranquility."

Arthur shakes his head, "What are you talking about?"

Alfred can't seem to explain himself, flopping by Arthur's legs like a dying fish. "Nevermiiiind. I just can't help ruining your little slice of heaven. You were looking cuddly without me."

Arthur hesitates, but inevitably gives in to stroking Alfred's head. The words leap to the front of his mind, nearly the front of his mouth, but he swallows them. Too afraid to say them aloud. I like being with you. He figures it's sort of obvious anyway. A knock on the door interrupts the moment.

Arthur swallows heavily, but Alfred winks, jumping to his feet. His blue eyes flick around before he hisses, "Why don't you read something? It'll look more natural."

He flushes but nods in agreement, grabbing a random textbook off the side table along with his tea mug.

"There we go," Alfred grins. "Shit," he giggles. "I'm totally getting you reading glasses for your birthday."

Arthur scowls, but a bit of tension melts from his shoulders. "I don't need reading glasses, idiot. I'm twenty two."

"For the aesthetic," Alfred defends himself, already prancing towards the door. A goofy smile adorns his face, making him seem all the more loveable. "Or maybe for the vine. We'll see when we get there."

Alfred throws open the door, the picture of sunshine. "Hi, you must be Nurse Shanemeyer. Oh, am I pronouncing that right? Is it Shane- meyer or like Shan-i-meyer?"

She seems thrown for just a minute by his fullblown cheer, but then matches it easily. She is a young peppy nurse after all. Part of the job description. "It doesn't really matter what way you say it. I've heard it so many ways." She laughs and Alfred laughs with her. They're practically bloody twinkling. Arthur thinks they could make a marvelous depression medication commercial.

"You must be Arthur then?" She asks and Arthur holds his breath. Moment of truth.

"Yep, that would be me." Alfred agrees, shifting on the balls of his feet. She makes a note on the clipboard she's carrying. "Would you like me to ask my roommate to leave?" Alfred asks her calmly. "We were just hanging out and I hadn't even thought of it."

"No, he can stay if you don't mind him. We'll just head into the restroom so I can check some things out." Her brown eyes flick over him curiously. She doesn't see anything wrong. Arthur is suddenly grateful for his baggy concealing sweats. He calmly turns the page of his textbook and takes a small sip of tea, watching from the corner of his eye as she leads Alfred into the bathroom.

He doesn't exactly understand why Alfred is doing this for him. Solidarity? Maybe Alfred does believe him- that he's fine.

Which he is. It's just... most people don't seem to. Arthur ponders this latest development over his tea. Alfred has more or less agreed to stay out of it.

As the minutes tick by, he thinks that he should be growing progressively more anxious. Yet after reaching the bottom of his mug, an accomplishment he hasn't been able to claim in quite some time, all Arthur feels is tired. He rests his head against the wall, thumbing idly through the textbook and hoping that when Alfred does come out he can stay for awhile.

"...overly concerned. But it's nice to see professors taking an interest in student's lives. You must be one of Professor Germaine's favorites." The nurse appears, jolting Arthur into alertness.

Alfred shoots him a helpless look over her shoulder. "Well, I wouldn't say favorite."

Shanemeyer shakes her head. "You must be his something, then, for him to show so much interest in you. What did you say you were majoring in?"

Alfred has positioned himself by the door to make it obvious that she should be leaving. She seems oblivious to his bouncing though, as she fiddles with the clasps on her bag.

"Uh..." Alfred's eyes grow wide with panic. Arthur raises his eyebrows incredulously. Have they seriously not talked about this yet?

"History," he mouths. Alfred stares, shaking his head. "History." Arthur half whispers.

"What?" Alfred asks.

The nurse looks up from her bag. "What?"

Alfred gives a jittery laugh. "Sorry, what did you say? I got lost in my thoughts for a second there."

"I was just wondering what you majored in."

"Oh, you know..."

"History, history, history, history." Arthur mouths over and over again.

Alfred gives him an exasperated shrug, "Mystery?"

Arthur nearly facepalms.

"Hmm?" The nurse's brow furrows and she gives him a skeptical look.

"It's a... mystery." Alfred laughs uneasily. "I'm still deciding."

"Aren't you a junior?"

"Yeah... yeah... I'm just..." Alfred exhales, nodding assuredly. "Taking my time with it, you know? Didn't want to rush into a bad decision." He continues to bob his head, crossing his arms. "My dad did that. Got stuck in a job he hated. Not something I want to do."

Arthur nearly groans. He wants to bury his face in his hands, but instead he flips another page of his textbook.

"Ah, well, that's good you're thinking it through." The nurse gives him an incredulous smile that devalues everything she just said. "What areas are you considering?"

Alfred half-opens his mouth in a smile, but behind his glittering blue gaze Arthur can tell he feels like killing her. "Well..." He throws an exasperated look Arthur's way. Arthur prepares to take up his chant of history again. "Just about everything..."

"Everything?" She raises her eyebrows.

"Just explor-" Alfred cuts off when Arthur suddenly holds up his textbook behind her back. The cover has a giant picture of an American flag, and so help him god if Alfred doesn't get that.

"History!" Alfred shouts, causing both Arthur and the nurse to jump. "I love history. Duh, I love history! Wow, that makes so much sense for me." He laughs, looking pleased with himself. "I'm such a dork."

Arthur scowls. That's a bit overkill.

Alfred flashes him a grin. "Yeah, I'm thinking about history. Basically. Yep." He laughs again, and the nurse sends him a weird look.

"That's probably why you're one of Professor Germaine's favorites."

"Ah," Alfred snaps his fingers, giving her a wink. "Yep, that would be it."

Arthur feels like vomiting. Alfred could at least attempt acting a little more like he does.

"Have you thought about what area of history you're interested in? Your chart tells me you grew up in London. Was there something here that you were specifically interested in?"

Damn this lady and her questions! Her brow furrows slightly as she begins to wonder why Alfred has no accent.

Alfred can about tell his time is up. Arthur wonders if she won't notice him if he hides under his covers. Alfred catches Arthur's eye one last time. Something in his gaze makes Alfred frown. He stands up straighter and proceeds to lie with such agility that even Arthur is impressed.

"I'm interested in American history," he says reasonably. "Obviously, it makes more sense to come here to study it. Haha, I believe I've become so integrated that most people can't even hear my accent anymore. It was a London accent anyway, so it was pretty slight. Can't help but miss it sometimes." Alfred offers her a sorry grin. "I have a class soon, so..."

"Oh, of course," She smiles apologetically. "I'll just leave you to it."

Arthur gapes when her back is turned. How in the world did Alfred just...?

Alfred gives the air a couple quick fistpumps. "Nailed it!" He mouths ecstatically. He starts to close the door behind the nurse, when someone in the hallway says, "Alfred?"

His blue eyes spark with confusion, then recognition, then horror. Arthur can't stand sitting in the bed any longer and slides in his socks over by Alfred. "Shelly." He says in shock. What's she doing here?

"Alfred?" The nurse asks, looking at Alfred.

"Arthur." Alfred says.

"I'm Alfred," Arthur joins in.

"Arthur, what are..." Shelly frowns in confusion.

"I'm just standing here." Alfred groans, pretending to laugh. "At least give me a chance to get my books, eager beaver. I had an appointment with the nurse. I'll be out to walk with you in just a second."

He proceeds to slam the door in both of their faces. He turns to Arthur with saucer-sized eyes. "Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit."

"Don't lock her out there!" Arthur hisses furiously. "What if they talk?"

"Oooooooonnnn second thought." Alfred flings the door back open. "Why don't you come in... uh... Michellleeey... seashell... Shelly! Yes, Shelly! I want to show you my new sex toy!" He blurts, grabbing her by the arm and jerking her into the room.

"What is going on?" Shelly demands when Alfred closes the door with a wave to the exasperated nurse.

"Sex toy." Arthur says blankly, to which she raises her eyebrows at him. Alfred's knees give out and he sinks to the floor in a heap.

"Ugh, that woman."

"Sex toy." Arthur repeats.

"It was the first thing that came to my mind!" Alfred shouts defensively, rubbing at his eyes with his fists. Arthur wonders if he should be worried about that. "Come on, Arthur! You weren't even doing anything. I was the one having to lie under pressure. Then, Seashell shows up and makes everything complicated." Alfred looks up at her seriously. "You have the worst timing."

"Alfred, you forgot my name." She shakes her head. "Or should I say, Arthur?"

"Just stop it." Arthur groans, giving up and sliding down next to Alfred. "What are you doing here?"

"I came to check on you." She looks between the two of them. "It seems like you're covered, though. Sex toys and switching identities, even a nurse."

"Heeeeey!" Alfred whines, but looks over in surprise when Arthur suddenly pushes his face into Alfred's shoulder. "Arthur?"

Arthur can't look at either of them. He tries to hold it back, but his shoulders are already shaking from the effort.

"Arthur, are you... laughing?"

The utter disbelief in Alfred's voice only seems to make the situation funnier. Arthur can't help it as his chuckles escalate into all out laughter. Tears start to gather in his eyes as he gasps, unable to pinpoint why it's just so funny. He can't believe how horribly wrong it all went. And how... how he really doesn't care.

Alfred, who never needs much of an excuse for laughter, joins in after a moment. At first hesitantly, but then his warm rich laugh echoes with Arthur's. He grabs Arthur by the shoulders as he tumbles to land on his back. Arthur curls on Alfred's chest clutching his ribs. They hurt! He hasn't laughed this hard in such a long time. But Alfred's excuses, Alfred's goofy impression of him. All serious consequences are lost on Arthur as he laughs into Alfred's chest and feels Alfred laugh beneath him.

"You two are crazy." Shelly decides, but she can't help grinning a little bit.

Alfred winks. "We're a package deal." He presses a kiss fondly to Arthur's mussed hair. Arthur doesn't notice the uncertain look they exchange behind his back.


	7. Chapter 7

**Hey guys! Continuing with my story, I'd just like to say for those interested ALL of the places I mention in this chapter are real (wowza). So if you ever want to get a feel for them, GOOGLE 'EM. Haha.**

 **ORIGINAL AUTHOR's NOTE BELOW:**

 **Someone asked me quite awhile ago (Sorry i'm so bad at replying!:P) if I used music to write my stories. Um, yes! I do, haha, a lot- that and the little hard citrus Japanese candies where you can eat the wrapper! :0 (Channeling my inner Alfred... It's made of rice paper). However, this story is based more on personal experience and has less of that musical quality :P.**

 **I just realized recently that I meant for this story to be in real time, so now it's slightly off and suddenly almost Christmas. Sorry to pounce finals on you like that, Artie. :) Much love, doze.**

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"Show-toe-qua." Alfred enunciates, grinning in amusement as Arthur tries to form the word correctly. It's been ten minutes and every time he attempts, it sends Alfred laughing. Damn Indian pronunciations.

"But it's not spelled that way..." Arthur insists, feeling his ears go red all the same as Alfred starts to giggle. "Why did you have to be born in such a weird place?"

"Chautauqua is not a weird place." Alfred says indignantly, sticking his tongue out. "It's New York and it's beautiful and I'm very proud."

"God only knows why," Arthur shakes his head, earning himself a playful push from Alfred. They're sitting cross-legged on his dorm bed, exchanging information about themselves on a Sunday. It had come to Arthur's attention that since Alfred didn't even know what he was majoring in, they should have this talk.

The incident with the nurse, now several days past, has no effect but to make Arthur smile now and then. He missed Professor Germaine's class that day, but he has decided to put it firmly from his mind until next Wednesday. Having Alfred back is all the distraction he needs. "Alright, so what's... what's that city like?" He asks.

Alfred grins, shaking his head. "Oh, I didn't grow up there. Just born there. I visited my grandparents last summer though. It's on the lake, which is absolutely fantastic! The boating and fishing are great, but my favorite parts are all the old mansions. I think you would really like it. It still has a lot of old 1900s architecture. We stayed in a bed and breakfast that used to be a mansion. It was incredible!"

Arthur nods. "That sounds fascinating."

"I'll bring pictures next time." Alfred promises brightly.

"New York is quite far away from here." Arthur notes. "How did you end up in Seattle?"

"Well..." Alfred trails thoughtfully. "I grew up in Leavenworth which is here in Washington. It's a pretty small town. I'll take you some time. There's a lot of German buildings. It looks like it should always be covered in snow since it borders the mountains and stuff. I came to Seattle because I wanted to go to a good culinary school. My parents weren't exactly thrilled since we've always lived in small towns, but I was excited to see the city." Arthur nods along, trying to picture the places that Alfred is describing to him. What Alfred must have seen and felt. Where he went to school and what he did for fun. Hearing about the boating and fishing in Chautauqua brings back memories from his own childhood.

"So," Alfred prompts, reaching suddenly forward to claim Arthur's hands with his large ones. "What about you? This isn't just an Alfred talks for ten years thing. The nurse said you grew up in London? That's a huge city."

"Well, sort of. We moved there when I was fourteen." Arthur slips his fingers between Alfred's, smiling slightly as Alfred traces a thumb over his knuckles. "I was born in Whitby. It's a small fishermen's town on the harbor. My father used to manage a small company there, before he moved to London to try his luck at my uncle's department shop. We used to have a boat and I would go out with my brothers sometimes and we would fish." Arthur trails to smile quietly.

Alfred nudges forward eagerly. "Tell me more about it."

"Of more interest to me now and perhaps to you," Arthur looks up to meet Alfred's blue eyes curiously. "It was the setting of Bram Stoker's Dracula. There's an abandoned abbey there that played a part in the story. I didn't know it then, but I'd been to the ruins and always found them quite wonderful."

Alfred chuckles, suddenly reaching to swing an arm around Arthur's neck. "Only you would call ruins wonderful, Art."

Arthur shrugs, falling quiet.

"Do you have pictures?" Alfred asks, his tone warmer. He always sounds genuinely interested. Since Arthur came to Seattle for college, no one has ever really asked him about his childhood. Alfred's curiosity makes his ears burn. Alfred doesn't fail to notice and laughs.

"Okay, later, then. What about London? I can't even imagine living there. I mean, I've been to New York City once or twice, but living there sounds both impossible and amazing."

"At first, it was difficult." Arthur admits. "I didn't know anyone at school. The city was very large and we moved into a wealthy district where I was expected to act a certain way. I had never really experienced anything like it before. We'd never visited my uncle in London. I didn't know what to expect. I was..." Arthur breathes out. He wonders how honest he should be. Meeting Alfred's warm blue gaze, he knows he has the tendency to spill more than he should."I was angry with my parents for a long time. I wasn't, well, particularly excellent at making friends. The ones I did have in Whitby I hardly got to speak to anymore. I did some," he chuckles nervously. "pretty stupid things when I was fifteen. I regret most of it now."

"Stupid things like what?" Alfred asks.

Arthur snorts in disbelief. "I have an image to maintain, Mr. Jones." He says wryly, lips quirking in amusement as Alfred begins to pout. "I can hardly spill all my secrets."

"Come on," Alfred pleads. "I'll bet you can't even begin to match some of the stupid stuff I've done. How about we swap? One stupid story for another?"

Arthur pretends to consider. It's not that he wouldn't share stories with Alfred, but some of his particularly angsty teenage moments still make him want to strangle his former self. He gets to his feet, coming to a compromise. "I'll show you a picture."

Alfred's eyes widen and he looks like he might complain, but the prospect of being shown a photo is too wonderful. He doesn't want to ruin it. Arthur nearly laughs at his anticipation. Alfred has the bed shaking with his bouncing. Various trinkets on his desk rattle. Arthur can't help but smirk as he leans under the bed to pull out a cardboard box. He settles back on his haunches to look through it, feeling Alfred watch from above.

As he goes, he finds things that he realizes he wouldn't mind showing Alfred anyway. Bits and pieces of life in England. Old writing awards, a Cadbury wrapper, a tie from sixth form, his first ever Bic lighter, a rare one pound lion coin, a dog- eared Oyster card. He proceeds to toss those on the bed and Alfred examines them curiously.

"Ah, Arthur! You were so cute!" Alfred exclaims suddenly, holding up the first of many small photo albums. Arthur doesn't even remember packing them, but his mum never fails to be overly sentimental.

The picture is one of him at around four or five being held by his older brother Murtagh in the dining room of their old kitchen. His brother is sporting a semi-fashionable mullet and Arthur himself is dressed in his Halloween bunny costume, holding a carrot. He remembers that year. Murtagh took him out trick-or-treating and James pantsed Henry in front of the Mason's house.

"Yeah..." He says noncommittally, feeling his cheeks grow red as Alfred proceeds to fawn over the rest of the pictures in the small album. He wonders what his mum could have possibly been thinking- that he would somehow need his first- day-of-school photos through sixth year. Let alone, the fact that Alfred discovers a photo of one year old Arthur in the bathtub that he proceeds to rip away quickly. Alfred pouts, while Arthur makes the vehement promise that he will burn it.

Arthur is still searching for the particular photo when he feels Alfred slide off the bed to sit next to him on the floor. "Wha-" He turns to look, but he doesn't even finish the word. Alfred's hand rests against the back of his neck and Alfred's warm lips press against his. Arthur is too surprised to return the kiss, but Alfred doesn't seem bothered. He pulls back with a soft grin, abruptly kissing Arthur on the tip of his nose.

"You're adorable." He says in admiration, causing even more color to rise to Arthur's cheeks. If he had known this was going to be so embarrassing, perhaps he would have suggested they go see another movie. But then Alfred works Arthur's hands away from the cardboard box, guiding them to wrap around his waist. At the same time, he pulls Arthur easily into his lap. Arthur can feel the warmth of Alfred's large hands against his back through the thin fabric of his button up.

On second thought, he decides he can deal with a bit of embarrassment for this.

Alfred doesn't really seem in the mood for anything more than cuddling. Arthur is too afraid to ask for anything more after the catastrophe that occurred earlier. Besides, as Alfred lifts him and tows him over to the bed, he feels a lot more comfortable when all they do is lay on top of each other.

"We're going for tea," Alfred determines later. The way he says it shows that he won't take no for an answer.

Arthur chuckles, tracing Alfred's cheek with his finger. "Do you even like tea?"

"No, but you like tea." Alfred insists. "I've found this really cute place downtown. They've put up their Christmas lights already. We can go shopping afterwards. It'll be fun."

"I'm having fun right now." Arthur half-groans as Alfred slips away from him.

"Come on, Arthur. I have school tomorrow, so we can't hang out until late. I want to take you somewhere."

"Why do we always have to do what you want to do?" Arthur puts on a half-whining tone, turning his face into his pillow. He can feel himself starting to smile.

"Uh, that is not true." Alfred puts a hand on his hip in the way of all sassy mums everywhere. "We stayed in this afternoon and talked about our feelings like you wanted."

Arthur blusters for a minute, sitting up with wild hair. That is not what happened. "You didn't want to do anything!"

"Yeah, and you wanted to talk." Alfred smiles devilishly. Arthur knows he's teasing, but that doesn't make it any less annoying.

"Oh, so it's all on me."

"It is." Alfred agrees. He's already slipped on his coat and gloves. He bites his lip in a goofy smile as he creeps forward. "You need to get out more. It'll be fun, Arthur." Arthur scowls, but Alfred is close enough that his breath tickles against Arthur's fringe and it's doing something odd with his heart. "Though I'll admit," Alfred continues, looking through his eyelashes at the different strains of color in Arthur's eyes. His voice grows huskier. "You are so cute when you're lazy."

Before Arthur can retort to that, Alfred kisses him fondly on the forehead, then the nose. He pauses before he kisses Arthur's mouth, but Arthur has already tipped his chin up in anticipation. Alfred laughs again, kissing him. The warmth of the sound reverberates against Arthur's lips and ultimately gets him out of bed. More or less like Alfred planned it.

Arthur wants to put on something nicer, but Alfred rushes him to the door, shoving a jumper over his head and grabbing his scarf and causing him to start cursing the day Alfred was born. Once they're out in the wet snow, he gives that up reluctantly. He likes it better when he and Alfred press against each other in the cold.

"So..." Alfred says, his arm swung over Arthur's shoulders as they walk downtown. Fairy lights hang across the buildings, sparking like little beacons against the general gray of things. There are several people out walking like them, laden with their Christmas shopping. Rosy cheeks and bustling strangers, places to be. "So..." Alfred repeats after he's gathered his thoughts. "What are you doing for Christmas?"

Arthur shrugs lightly, mind flying back to his Macbook on his dorm room desk. He's supposed to book tickets back home, but he's been avoiding it.

"Are you going back to England?" Alfred asks curiously.

"I haven't decided," Arthur says. "And before you lecture me, I know, I know. Ticket prices will go up as it gets nearer. I'm aware."

Alfred's lips twitch. "I wasn't going to say that." He breathes out, a giant cloud of white that hangs for a moment before dissipating. "I'm staying here. My parents wanted me to drive down to Leavenworth, but I've been interning at a restaurant and they really need me for the holidays. The head chef and I get on really well. I'm hoping that he'll offer me a job once I finish this year."

"Mmmm..." Arthur adds that to his mental catalogue of things he's learned about Alfred. "I'm sure he will. You're a brilliant chef."

Alfred's eyebrows raise in shock for the compliment. Arthur wonders if it's really that hard to wring praise out of him. For Alfred at least, he feels like he gives it rather freely. "Wow, thanks Arthur," His smile turns joking. "But it's a bit hard taking your word for it when the one time you tried my food, you threw up."

Arthur's nose wrinkles. "I was sick," he says petulantly, though his heart thuds a bit faster.

"Yeah..." Alfred trails uncertainly, looking like he regrets bringing it up. "Well, if you stay in town, you outta come stay at my place for Christmas. I won't have anybody around, and it's not much fun being alone." Alfred's grin widens ruefully. "We can do stupid couple things, if you want."

"Like?"

Alfred tugs him into the tea shop, walking backwards so that he can continue their conversation. "Like decorate the tree and watch Christmas movies and go see light displays and sing Christmas carols and eat Christmas cookies. You have to try my cookies, Arthur. They're what I'm most proud of." He shrugs out of his winter coat dropping it into a red leather booth.

The place is piping warm. Fog steams on the giant windows looking out over the main street. The table is rugged wood and so are the floors. Quaint pictures of country towns done in modern style adorn the pale blue walls. Christmas wreaths are looped around the light fixtures. Fairy lights hang sparkling over an ancient T.V. set in the corner. A wireless on the counter drones out Bing Crosby into the silence. Several college students sit huddled up with homework and a few elderly couples share entirely silent conversations, speaking only in the slight raise of an eyebrow or brush of a hand.

"Arthur?" Alfred prompts, a faint note of worry in his voice.

Arthur shrugs out of his jacket, dropping it onto the table. "Yes, Alfred. I heard you. I'll have to try your cookies. They're to die for."

Alfred relaxes a bit, though he still looks uneasy. They stand in awkward silence at the table, before Alfred waves towards the counter. "Order whatever you want. It's on me."

"Not likely." Arthur replies neatly, pulling out his own wallet.

Alfred groans good-naturedly, but doesn't make a fuss. "Fine... But only because you'll feel super guilty about what I'm getting you for Christmas."

Arthur spins to look at him.

"What? I didn't say anything."

"Goddamn you, Alfred Jones." He mutters, barely holding a scowl. Something about Alfred that he's realized recently- Alfred enjoys being cursed at.

Alfred grins, throwing an arm over his shoulder. "Whatever you say."

Wait. Scratch that. Alfred enjoys being cursed at when he knows Arthur doesn't mean it.

Once they've settled with stoneware mugs and Alfred with an array of pastries, they sit in silence for some time watching the snow. As Arthur sips his tea, he feels smug for managing to shove his card into the cashier's hand before Alfred, effectively paying for both of their drinks. He feels Alfred's foot brush against his under the table and looks over curiously. It bothers him that Alfred looks sad. He does look sad, doesn't he? Maybe it's the fact that he's not bloody beaming at the moment, but...

Alfred gives him a small half-smile.

"What?" He says, feeling out of his depth. The elderly couple next to them may be excellent at having silent conversations, but Arthur is still fleshing out how to have talking conversations, let alone soundless ones, full of depth and meaning.

"Nothing," Alfred shakes his head, looking bothered. He looks down into his mug quietly. "Actually... Arthur, can I ask you something?"

"If you must." Arthur says, hoping for a grin from Alfred, but Alfred only shrugs.

"I'm having a hard time with something. I was wondering if you could give me some advice."

"Oh." Arthur says, feeling uneasy. He wouldn't call himself the real life issues guru. It's odd to him that Alfred would even consider confiding anything.

"Yeah." Alfred breathes out. He bites his lip. "Basically... my friend's been really down on himself lately. I'm not sure what exactly is going on, but I really want to help him, you know? He doesn't seem very willing to talk to me, though."

Arthur shifts his weight. He hates being asked for advice. He always has these ridiculous dreams that people are going to come back and haunt him if he gives them the wrong sort. "You'd have to give me more information than that, Alfred. I mean, from a purely friendly standpoint, you should make it really obvious that you care about him. Perhaps, then he'd open up."

Alfred exhales with a slight smile. "You'd think, wouldn't you? I don't know. It's kind of sensitive. He's a private person and I don't want to seem like I'm prying. We haven't been friends for very long."

"Are you sure there's something wrong then?" Arthur puts forth, willing to give this friend the benefit of the doubt. Though, if nearly oblivious Alfred is worried about him, it's likely that something is wrong.

"Yeah, well, pretty sure. He acts odd sometimes and gets really defensive. I don't mean to upset him, but... I just do. I was wondering... I mean, it's bothering me because..." Alfred trails off into silence, looking frustrated. Arthur has never seen him act this way and he doesn't like it. He reaches forward putting his hand over Alfred's.

"Don't worry about it too much, Alfred. You're a wonderful friend. I'm sure he knows that too. If he doesn't want to open up, it's his own fault, not yours."

"But I care about him!" Alfred blurts out in disbelief. "You're saying I should sit on my ass and do nothing?"

"No..." Arthur swallows, taking his hand back at Alfred's surprisingly volatile reaction. "I didn't mean... I..." He feels color rise to his cheeks. How is it that he always says the wrong thing?

Alfred sees him looking upset and he sighs guiltily. "Sorry, Arthur, really. I'm just frustrated. I want him to feel better is all. He... he seems like he's hiding stuff from everybody and it's not good for him. You can understand why I'm worried?"

"You care a lot about this friend," is all Arthur says, abruptly feeling irrationally jealous.

Alfred is thrown by his mood change, but rather than offer reassurance, he laughs. "More than you realize."

"Hmm." Arthur grunts into his tea. His generous advice giving mood has evaporated. He now feels grouchy and irritable thinking about a person Alfred cares for so much. Here he was just feeling special too. The fairy lights were getting to him. "Well, if he won't tell you how he feels, he's obviously not worth your time. I know you care about him, and because you're so goddamn stubborn you'll never stop caring about him, but he doesn't deserve it if he's going to shut you out so much. Sounds bloody ungrateful to me."

Alfred's brow furrows quizzically, an odd smile quirking his lips. "I think I agree with you. I should punish him. Sometimes I think he does it on purpose." He looks near laughing. Arthur doesn't understand why his somber mood has changed to this bemused one.

"If it'll get him to open his damned eyes to the fact that he has a wonderful, very handsome friend, then I don't see why not."

Alfred laughs this time, reaching for Arthur's hands. "You're cruel, Arthur. What would you have me do?"

Arthur frowns skeptically. I would have you spend more time with me is what I'd do. He exhales, squeezing Alfred's hands as he does it. He's acting a bit ridiculous, getting jealous over something silly. "Don't give up on him. He... he probably doesn't know how to react to someone that actually cares to know the truth."

Alfred looks shocked by the seriousness of his advice, and also oddly suspicious.

Arthur scowls. "I can give good advice now and then, git."

"Riiiiiight." Alfred draws out, squinting his eyes.

Alfred then pushes himself forward to kiss Arthur across the table. "Thank you, then."

"Y-You're welcome." Arthur has to clear his throat, blushing a bit.

Afterwards, they spend time idling in the little shops. Alfred bursts with excitement for Christmas, loading up on lights and wreaths and decorations until he and Arthur are both struggling with the bags.

"You're helping me decorate." Alfred says with no room for argument. "This week some time. My roomie's leaving for

Nebraska, so we'll have the place to ourselves to be loud and crazy and do whatever we want."

Arthur huffs under his load of cookie cutters and holly. "Perhaps, you're going a bit overboard."

"Nah," Alfred snorts. "Me? Overboard? Never."

"Have you met yourself?"

Alfred laughs. "I suppose I am making you carry ten tons of stuff. Look, we'll drop it off at my apartment in a second. There's one more store I want to check out."

Arthur huffs irritably, but trails along after him, nearly dragging the bags on the ground by this point. His arms burn but he doesn't want to ask Alfred for help. He's perfectly capable by himself. Alfred leans up against the door of a beautifully decorated shop, humming Christmas music absently under his breath.

He walks backwards to push it open, dictating a spot on the floor for Arthur to dump their purchases. As he straightens up, he looks about himself.

"Oh." He says quietly, eyeing the glass displays of fudge and sweets.

Alfred doesn't hear him, skipping up to exchange pithy words with the familiar albino cashier. "Gilbert, my man," Alfred high fives him ecstatically. "Nice elf ears."

"I scared a child. It's victory enough for me." Gilbert retorts, leaning lazily against the counter. Alfred and Arthur are the only customers at the moment. It should feel empty, but to Arthur it feels extremely claustrophobic. The sickly sweetness of the fudge- he feels that the place needs to be fumigated.

"If you're looking for free samples, you can fuck off," Gilbert continues. "I got busted for giving Lizzy some the other day. Manager was not too thrilled." He lets loose a low whistle. "I think he was really just mad that she wouldn't give him her number. Sorry motherfucker." Gilbert shakes his head.

Alfred laughs lightly. "He shouldn't be too upset. I mean, when you first asked, she kicked you in the dong."

"That was an accident." Gilbert growls, wincing as the memory returns. "She thought I was flirting when I so obviously wasn't. I asked so that I could use my new prank call scheme."

"Sure." Alfred sticks his tongue out slightly. His blue eyes glitter as he begins to examine the different treats in the display cases. "Any suggestions? I'm loading up in case there's a blizzard."

"Aren't you always, Jones? You can at least try looking fit now that you've got a boyfriend." Gilbert smirks.

Alfred puffs out his cheeks. "Not funny. I'm a chef. It's in the DNA. I look alright, don't I, Artie?"

Alfred throws a look back at him imploringly. It comes to Arthur's slight amusement that he actually seems concerned.

"Like a runway model." Arthur rolls his eyes. Alfred doesn't have to know that that's the actual truth.

Assuaged, Alfred winks. "Thanks, rockstar."

After Alfred loads up on sweets and exchanges a few more insults with Gilbert, they walk out into the mushy Seattle snow. As they go, Alfred starts up a running critique, not seeming to realize he's doing it. "I'd add more nuts to this. This one's too dry. Mixing pumpkin with peanut butter sounds interesting in theory, but I'm not entirely sure in practice. Possibly more milk?"

Arthur listens to his commentary with a slight smile.

"I really like the peppermint pieces in this. Super festive, but also crunchy..." He trails, looking at the block of white and red fudge. "Do you want to try some, Arthur?"

Arthur's heart skips a beat. He swallows roughly, forcing himself to meet Alfred's curious blue eyes. "I'd rather not."

"Oh, yeah." Alfred frowns, fidgeting. Not seeming to know what to do, he shoves the whole block of fudge in his mouth.

Arthur's brow furrows skeptically. "Really?"

Alfred forces a grin and a defensive, "It's good."

"You were just criticizing it."

"So? It's sweet and I like it."

Arthur rolls his eyes. "You're sweet and I like you. Doesn't mean I just go shoving you into my mouth."

Alfred snickers. "Well, not all at once."

Arthur turns on Alfred, ready to beat him a new one. But the silly fear on Alfred's face as he hastily swallows his fudge so he can run without choking causes Arthur to nearly laugh instead. "You're an idiot," he settles to say.

"I know. I always do the wrong thing." Alfred smiles helplessly. Arthur frowns because it's the same smile he wore back in the tea shop.

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 **For the record, his "friend" is Arthur. Haha. I can't have anyone missing that.**


	8. Chapter 8

**Hello guys, here is chapter 8. For your enjoyment :)**

 **Just an fyi, I have a USUK Hogwarts AU that I'm planning on updating Fridays as well. That chapter is also up, if you were looking for anymore shameless USUK wink wink. Haha**

 **Thanks for all your support! You guys make writing so much fun.**

 **much love, doze**

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"You should invite him to the Christmas party!"

"No." Arthur doesn't even bother looking up from his book.

"Seriously? Why not?" Shelly cards her fingers through her messy hair. It's done up in a sloppy bun, synonymous by now with finals studying. She lets her head drop onto his shoulder. "What if I say please?"

"It will change nothing." Arthur brushes one of her stray hairs from his mouth. "I would not do something so idiotic as invite him to an underclassmen booze fest. Honestly put, I think we're too old to go by now. Do you really want to hang around babies all the time?"

"Francis is going."

"My point." Arthur shakes his head. "Shelly, I'm trying to study. If you aren't going to quiz me, then I don't want to talk right now."

She shifts up into a sitting position with a sigh. "Always so serious. Why couldn't you recruit Alfred to help you out?"

"Don't be silly. He has things to study for too." Arthur flips another page of his book.

"Like what? He's in culinary school for Christ's sake."

"He has a pass or fail exam where he cooks for his instructor. He has to demonstrate certain skills. He has to show off a dish of his creation. He's busy, and I refuse to get in his way." Nor do I want to be made impromptu taste-tester. Arthur adds in his mind.

"So you aren't meeting up with him later?"

"...I didn't say that."

"Of course," She rolls her eyes, smirking slightly.

He scowls, letting his book fall to his lap. "What?"

"Nothing. I just think it's amusing how earlier you were trying to convince me he wasn't your type. You can't lie to me, Arthur. I know you."

"I haven't dated anybody since secondary. There's no possible way you could know my type." Arthur says with a delicate sneer. "Alfred is obviously very handsome and quite charming when he can be bothered. I don't see why any other person, boy or girl, wouldn't be interested."

Shelly shakes her head. "No, there's more than that."

"Enlighten me." Arthur says wryly. He sets his book on the desk, knowing that she's well and truly distracted him.

"Well, first off," She smiles. "You like him because he's a gushy type."

Arthur snorts. "Please."

"No, I'm serious." Shelly grins wider. "You like it when he randomly decides to serenade you with lovey dovey garbage or when he insists on holding every door open."

"He's just being thoughtful." Arthur says defensively. "Anybody would like that."

"Yeah, but..." Shelly shakes her head. She continues to look at him all ruffled up and then just laughs. "I don't know what it is, Arthur. You and him, you're like the dynamic duo."

Arthur blushes.

"How eloquent." He grumbles and she only grins. She likes Alfred a lot. After the initial forgetting of her name, Alfred and Shelly clicked easily, finding shared interests in the weirdest of things. Arthur had been a bit nervous having the two of them out for coffee, but it had almost gone too well.

Apparently, they were both avid Star Wars fans. Alfred went on and on about his collectors this and whatever from Episode III. Shelly happened to mention Food Network, which as anybody could imagine shot Alfred straight to Cloud 9. She was a somewhat amateur chef and by the end of their coffee time, the experience had turned into the Dr. Phil of cooking troubles. Shelly confessed all her issues and Alfred would troubleshoot.

Arthur had followed along half-heartedly. Realizing that he had somehow become the third wheel to his boyfriend and best friend was not a fun moment. He's never really considered himself much of an attention-seeker, but around Alfred he finds it difficult to sit by and watch as he smiles, laughs, jokes with other people.

Shelly, who never misses anything, persists in teasing him for it every time they're alone.

"I'm just happy for you." She says, when Arthur continues to scowl. "Alfred is very awesome."

"I realized." Arthur decides he's had enough of her for one sitting and stands, stretching. "I'm going to study alone now."

"You can be so rude, you know?" She sticks her tongue out. "Fine, fine, get your perfect scores alone, then. That's how you always are."

Arthur rolls his eyes, shoving a few more books into his backpack. She thinks that he studies all the time, but she would be surprised to know how much time he actually spends napping. Enough that even lazyass Alfred gets a kick out of teasing him.

"Hey, did you ever talk to Germaine?"

"Eh, yeah," Arthur shoulders his backpack, giving her a pained smile. "He was pretty forgiving, realizes I've been stressed out... He must have talked to the nurse, because he apologized to me and said that I no longer have to take meals with him."

"Really?" Shelly's eyebrows lift. "He's been doing that for awhile now and he just decided to stop."

"Well, he had the nurse's word that "I'm" healthy." Arthur shrugs. "About time he left me alone in my opinion. It was just really annoying, having to be down there at that time everyday."

"Are you going for lunch now, Arthur?" Shelly asks suddenly. "Because I'll-

"No need." Arthur interrupts, offering her a quick smile. "Alfred and I will get something I'm sure." Well, Alfred will get something, at least.

"Oh," She relaxes a little at Alfred's name. "Right. Okay, see you then! And think about that Christmas party!"

"I won't!" He calls over his shoulder. The chilly winter hits him full force as he leaves his favorite haven this time of year. The campus is lit up for the holiday. Wreaths and little glowing fairy lights twinkle along the light posts. A grand spectacle of a tree has taken center stage on the high street.

Not many students are out and about, either tucked into the library or their dorms, but invariably tucked into ten tons of notes. Usually, Arthur is as stressed as the next guy. He puts a lot of pressure on himself to perform well. For a long time, it had been to prove a point- that going to uni over here hadn't been a bad decision. Recently, it was because he liked to be the best. There isn't as much competition or mark-comparing in college, but Arthur still gets a kick out of receiving the highest marks in his class.

This time around, his classes are hardly difficult. It's in his nature to study as the year goes on. He really has no reason

to stress when the time comes for finals, though he often does.

If he could categorize the year in a word... He thinks that 'distraction' works rather well. Schools distracts him from Alfred. Alfred distracts him from school. School and Alfred distract him from things that he'd rather not think about.

Arthur is looking forward to the next several weeks. He's given up his plans for a London Christmas in favor of spending time with his new boyfriend. While staying at Alfred's apartment makes him nervous for all sorts of reasons, Arthur feels like he already knew he would give into the temptation as soon as Alfred suggested it.

Slowing slightly, Arthur considers dumping his bag in his room before meeting Alfred. He's already running earlier than they had agreed, but he likes to pop into the culinary school now and then without warning. The surprised and then pleased grin that grabs at Alfred's face is something Arthur enjoys more than he will admit.

He might as well do this properly. A classic reindeer pattern Christmas jumper later, he trots down the cobblestones, wondering if Alfred hasn't affected him a little too much.

When he reaches the school, the secretary at the welcome desk, waves him through with a, "Merry Christmas, Arthur. Alfred's in kitchen B."

"Thanks." Arthur gives her a wolfish grin, unable to help the slight spring in his step as he heads down the empty hallways.

Proper classes are on hold for the moment. The culinary students are at work, fixing their various independent projects. When the time comes, they will prepare them in real time for the instructor. It's a pretty open concept place. Students drop by when they want to or when they can- to practice.

Arthur has learned the layout of the building by now. He's found that it's one of the better times to visit Alfred and that Alfred isn't forceful about shoving food down his throat like he feared. Arthur, other than school, doesn't have much to occupy himself with. Books have always been his means, but with the addition of Alfred in his life he finds the usual reading solitude gloomy rather than enjoyable.

It doesn't help that Alfred is ceaselessly busy, involved in everything from the Culinary Student Decorating Committee to his church's babysitting services. His job keeps him working nights and the culinary school has him practicing days. Weekends are stuffed with community service this and party planning that. Alfred never stops. Sometimes (although secretly, as Arthur could never bring himself to say it aloud) he worries that he'll lose his foothold in all Alfred's chaos and that he'll be confined to the dusty corner of things that Alfred got bored with (i.e. Teach yourself guitar, P90X, and learning Greek).

He takes a deep breath, noticing that his hands are sweating a little. Leaning his weight into the swinging door, he pops his head in nervously. Alfred has the stereo blasting "Good Girls Go Bad" and is head banging to it without a care in the world. A piping tube of frosting serves as his makeshift microphone.

"I was hanging in the corner with my five best friends. I heard that you were trouble, but I couldn't resist." Alfred sings in a high-pitched imitation of the artist, twirling a knife expertly in his other hand. A cake, half way frosted in green, sits in front of him and he dances around it as he works. It's not the only thing cooking. As is the way with Alfred, there's a casserole in the oven and a seafood medley on the stove.

"Oh she got away with the boys in the place. Cheat 'em like they don't stand a chance. And he got away with the girls in the back, acting like they're too hot to dance. I make them good girls go bad."

After coating the cake in smooth green, Alfred brings his pipe tube around and begins to add little red lattices to the side. Arthur is always interested to watch Alfred work. The expert way he handles the icing, his skill, it's evident in the delicate sweeping of the red pipe work. His hand never shakes and always connects the next lattice evenly.

"I make them good girls go... good girls go bad."

The next song has come on by the time Alfred notices him at the door.

"Drunk all night. You think you're hot shi- Oh hey, Artie!" He brightens instantly. "I didn't expect you! Get over here! You need to see this rad ass rose that I made out of fondant earlier."

He leaps forward, not giving Arthur a chance to move and jerks him to the counter. "See, look at that fucking beautiful little shit. Two hours of practice and that's what I get. I think I'll frame it."

Alfred, arm now tight over Arthur's shoulders, shows offs a delicate pedaled red rose in the clumsy palm of his hand.

"That's not made of icing." Arthur snorts. "Don't try and pull that on me."

"Um. Hello." Alfred's mouth drops. "It totally is. I made it. Look it's fondant, like the covering you can spread over cakes. I wanted to figure it out. Basically you have to make the rose, but then you have to steam it to give it this realistic shimmer. I swear to God, Arthur! I'm not lying!" He ends, half-yelling, but grinning. "I would shove this in your mouth, but it's too beautiful."

"Because it's real." Arthur retorts

Alfred groans, stomping his foot on the ground like a toddler. "It's nooooooot."

This draws a smile to Arthur's lips and he reaches to catch Alfred's chin. Alfred's eyes grow wide, but he stops his childish whinging. When their mouths meet, Alfred tastes sweet like sugar. He brushes the rose off of his hand onto a cutting board, so that he can fully hold Arthur. His hands massage at Arthur's back, moaning into him.

When he pulls back, Alfred sighs, dropping his forehead against Arthur's.

"How's your studying been going?" He asks.

"Well enough." Arthur says. "You taste like you've been eating the fondant." He acts like he's going to poke Alfred in the stomach and nothing gets him stumbling away faster.

"Only a little," He pouts, before grinning. "You're wearing the sweater I bought you."

Arthur scowls. "Am I? I've been meaning to do some laundry. I should really get on it, if it's come to this." He pinches the navy blue jumper in pretend disgust.

Alfred pouts again. "Cruel."

It isn't long before they've settled in their places, and Alfred babbles on relentlessly. The music turned down to a level that it's completely forgotten. Arthur sits on one of the counter tops lazily thumbing through a book as Alfred finishes up.

"Sooo... what's the agenda for tonight?" Alfred asks over the clattering of his dishes. "Were you going to bring your stuff over yet?"

"I haven't even taken finals yet."

"So?" Alfred shrugs. "My roommate left yesterday. I've got no one around. It's not far from campus at all."

Arthur raises his eyebrows. "You're trying to waylay me into decorating, again."

"I'm not." Alfred tsks, but avoids his eyes.

"You are." Arthur smiles, because Alfred isn't looking. "Don't you have something later? Painting the nursing home or something like that?"

Alfred glances over his shoulder, incredulously. His arms are lost in soap suds at the sink. "Painting the nursing home?"

"Either that or teaching orphaned blind children to read."

"I'd have a bit of a hard time doing that." Alfred notes, grinning. "Come on, Arthur. I'm not a saint. I've got nothing going on tonight. It'll be just you and me if you're up for it."

"God, I don't know. All night?" Arthur feigns reluctance. "I haven't had time to properly prepare myself for-"

"For what?" Alfred interrupts, turning around to grin at him. He crosses his arms. "My awesomeness?"

"Your enthusiasm." Arthur says.

"I'll take it. You could have said something much worse." Alfred quickly turns back around, causing Arthur to laugh.

"What did you think I'd say? Your willy?"

"Arthur," Alfred pretends to gasp. He throws a wink over his shoulder. "I'll take that too, actually."

Arthur can't help smiling. "Of course, you would. You need all the encouragement you can get."

"Um. Whoa." Alfred spins back around, laughing as he accidentally sprays them both with suds. "Sorry. Uh..." He giggles. "You got a little..." He brushes a hand against his nose.

Arthur wipes it off with his sleeve, shaking his head to rid himself of the suds in his hair. Alfred laughs.

"Wait, wait," He chuckles. "I was angry. What was I saying?"

"Willy?" Arthur poses, smiling doggishly.

"Yeah! Right! You haven't even seen it, you little shit." Alfred wags a finger at him.

"Then... maybe I'll have to." Arthur suggests, a bit breathlessly. His hands tighten against his book.

Alfred doesn't answer. Arthur worries that he's gone too far. When the silence stretches on, he quickly opens his mouth to apologize. Panic coils in his chest, tense and red hot.

"That depends." Alfred tosses the last dish down to dry. He leans up against the counter to inspect Arthur. "Would you take good care of it?"

Arthur's mouth flaps slightly, cheeks burning. "What the hell was that pause for?"

"It's a serious question." Alfred breaks to grin for just a second, before he smooths his face into a marble mask again. "What would you do with it, Arthur?"

"Oh, fuck off." Arthur runs a hand under his collar. "You're teasing me."

"I mean," Alfred continues loftily. "Not just anyone gets to see it. I don't just whip it out for parties and nonsense. You need a backstage pass for this dick."

"Alfred," Arthur groans. "Stop."

Alfred comes teasingly forward, resting his hands on Arthur's knees. "I need to know, Artie." His blue eyes are warm and smoky. He leans playfully upwards, biting his lip as he considers. Arthur swallows, wondering if he's really going to get hard over something so-

Alfred pecks him on the lips. "After your last final. Christmas break. My place. Don't be late." He pauses, before saying goofily. "Merry Christmas, Arthur."

Before Arthur can tell him that he's an arrogant prick for thinking his sex is God's gift to men, Alfred meets him in another kiss. Okay, maybe it's true.

0 0 0

It's later in the evening that Arthur has to face him. Him and his army of cookie cutters. The particular reason he had been putting off going to Alfred's to decorate is now very much in his face.

"Please." Alfred pouts. "We did what you wanted to do all day. And... you didn't have anything for dinner."

Or lunch. Arthur adds in his mind wryly. He ate some carrot sticks for breakfast, but those hadn't sat very well. He'd been reduced to pulling his knees to his chest and waiting in bed until the horrible clenching of his innards stopped. If there's any reason not to eat, it's that it hurts when he does.

Alfred's puppy dog face continues to gain in intensity.

Arthur caves with a soft, "Fine. But I can't bake for shit."

"That's no problem." Alfred beams, reaching for him. He lets Alfred hold him, guiding his hands to mix and add the right ingredients, roll out the dough, press it into little gingerbread and reindeer shapes. It would have been calming, but each cutesy cookie stares back at him with unseen eyes. You're next.

How very macabre he's getting recently.

"Into the oven. And now we wait." Alfred pops the cookies in. He turns to Arthur after a moment. A bit of tinsel is still twisted in his honey hair from their tree decorating experience. Alfred bites his lip thoughtfully, before holding out his arms. "Come here."

Arthur skulks over, tipping his head into Alfred's chest. Alfred's arms wrap around him. "I love you." Alfred says fondly, in a deep rumble of a voice. He rocks them back and forth. "Are you sure you want to stay around here for Christmas?"

"Very." Arthur says tiredly. "I might actually get a moment of peace. My family..."

Alfred laughs. "It's just me and my brother in my family. He's super quiet anyway. I was the loud one. They say holidays without me are very boring."

"Perhaps the word they were looking for was relaxing."

"Hey," Alfred shakes him lightly. He chuckles. "You know... Arthur, I... I'm looking forward to spending the holiday with you."

"Mmm." Arthur murmurs, feeling his heart burn. This holiday will certainly be different under Alfred's watchful eyes. He has the tendency to get lost among his brothers and cranky relatives back home. They may ask him about Seattle, but other than that... For a second, he indulges himself imagining what they would say if he brought Alfred. The conservative ones would be stiff-lipped. Some wouldn't care. His mum would be surprised. Alfred is very handsome.

The beep of the timer draws him reluctantly from his reverie. Once all the cookies are cool, he and Alfred arm themselves with store bought icing and begin the slow work of giving their characters faces. Alfred chatters goofily, giving them names and lives and voices as well. He claims that Arthur's gingerbread man, a businessman by day, agent by night, is madly in love with his gingerbread man, an opera singer with a fetish for gumdrop buttons.

Arthur, who would normally cut off his ridiculous nonsense quickly, lets his head fall to his arms and just watches. Alfred acts out a melodrama of some ten minutes, bringing them up to kiss each other at the end. He holds out Arthur's cookie, biting off the head of his own. "And with his life in order, Arthur Gingerbreadman decides it's his time and that he's ready for the great beyond."

Arthur takes the cookie slowly from Alfred, dreading what will inevitably happen. It pleases Alfred and that's the fact he holds onto. It only serves to make himself more disgusting, disgusting. But these are Alfred's cookies. Later, he can deal with himself accordingly. Now, he can do his best to make Alfred smile.

Arthur swallows the last bite, forcing a smile to Alfred's and accepting the next cookie with no complaints. Alfred continues his stupid voiceovers, obviously enjoying himself. He doesn't notice that Arthur's hands shake or that sometimes he has to force back bile. And that's okay. Arthur doesn't want to be interrogated. But... At the same time...

The harsh feeling that sends his guts turning. It stabs unrepentantly around his middle, sending him to his feet and around the other side of the counter, pushing himself into Alfred's side. Alfred blinks, bewildered, but throws a steadying arm around him. "Last one to finish the dozen, you want it?"

"I suppose." He snarks, accepting it from Alfred. Eating it faster doesn't help. His insides are churning. His heart too. His left arm feels like it's going numb. The whole of his chest hurts, causing his vision to spark. He's panicking. He needs to calm down.

"Al-Alfred, I'm going to use the toilet. I'll be back." He excuses himself hastily, ducking away.

Once he's in the bathroom alone, he drops to his knees by the toilet, panting. Not yet. Not yet. Later. Not yet. One of his hands clutches at his chest, not understanding. It's never hurt there before. Why...

Arthur gasps in pain as he tries to move his left arm. Something's wrong. Something's... Several tears slip through his slitted eyes. He tries to catch his breath, but the pain is incredible. He doesn't think he can stand. _It's because I ate. He made me eat. Why did he make me eat? Can't he see?_

Cookies of all things! Cookies! Arthur grasps at his roiling stomach. Pastries and cookies and... he gags, forcing back the bile. _Control yourself, you hopeless miserable unwanted wretch! Alfred won't be happy with you if you puke in his apartment. Get yourself under control! Or he'll see what you are!_

"See what I am..." Arthur closes his eyes, dropping his head against the toilet seat in agony. His chest, fuck his chest. If it were just his stomach, he could handle it. But this...

I need a depressant. Something that slows heart rate.

Arthur's eyes flitter up to catch the white of Alfred's medicine cabinet. He only has one bathroom in his whole apartment. It would be here. Agonizingly, Arthur draws himself to his feet. His left arm still hurts to move. His stomach is in knots and his chest burns with a pain that makes it hard to breathe let alone function.

He eases open the cabinet door, scanning over the labels. By this point he'd take anything. Painkillers, whatever. His eyes land on a bottle he recognizes and he pulls it down. Xanax. He had taken it for anxiety when he was fifteen. Briefly, he wonders if it's Alfred's. But it's not enough to stop him from dumping four in his palm and downing them.

It's not immediate, but it laps over him like an ocean wave. He feels almost blissfully heavy. His stomach still stabs at random occasions, but he can stand up now. Arthur hesitates, but pockets the bottle. Xanax is a prescription drug. Whoever has the prescription can get a new one.

0 0 0

Alfred chuckles, rubbing Arthur's back fondly. "You like my bed, dontcha?"

"It's bigger." Arthur agrees lazily, moving his head up more on Alfred's chest. "More room."

Alfred kisses him. "Night, buddy. Thanks for decorating with me."

"I don't mind." Arthur says honestly, kissing Alfred quickly under his chin.

"Yeah..." Alfred yawns. "You're the best."

Arthur shivers, smiling warmly as he listens to Alfred's breathing slow. It's ironic or maybe just fitting. He's a liar and he likes being lied to.

He stays awake for at least a couple hours. The pain in his stomach has far from gone away, but he couldn't pass up the chance to stay with Alfred. Silently, he slips from the bed, careful to not make noise.

He's tired and he wants to get this over with quickly. Arthur shuts the bathroom door, easing the toilet lid up. Just in case, he turns on the shower to drown out any noise. All it takes is a slight push of his finger. He tries not to look when he does it, but he makes himself listen. The retching noise is disturbing. No matter how many times he does this, he can't get past the fact. It's disgusting and ironically only serves to make him gag harder. An overwhelming disgust for himself is the only thing that's allowed to fill his belly.

Once Arthur finishes, he obsessively rinses out his mouth, unable to quite be rid of the acidic taste. That's done now and he should be able to rest. It calms him to think of things in a laundry list kind of way. Make Alfred like him. Check. Get rid of subsequent food. Check. Go back to bed. He straightens up, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of one of Alfred's oversized hoodies. In the silence of the apartment, he watches himself in the mirror critically. Gently, he pulls up the edge of the hoodie, inspecting his stomach. Weak. Fat. Incapable. Undisciplined.

"I'll get there." He promises himself, uncertain where there is. "I'll get there. Alfred... Alfred wants me."

To hear it out loud makes him flinch. _I don't know why he would..._

He touches one of his ribs anxiously. _I can control this. I'm okay. I can't do anything about my... face, my hair, my teeth, my skin. But this I can control._

"This I will control." He murmurs, dropping his shirt and straightening. Yet, the uneasiness doesn't go away and he continues to trace his fingers against his sides. _I probably didn't get it all out. I had to wait this time. It's too late now. The extra calories..._

Arthur gets down slowly on his hands and knees, dragging in a deep breath that seems to rattle his bones. He forces himself into press-up position. His arms quiver against his weight, but he guides himself down. Up. Down. Up. Down. Arthur gasps raggedly. Tears sparkle irrationally in his eyes, driving him harder. Down. Up. Down. Up. _I can barely hold myself. Why... I'm so weak. My arms..._

His arms shake like tree branches in a storm wind. He pushes spastically harder, faster, harder, faster. _Make yourself, fuckjob. Make yourself. Of course you want to give up, you're a pansy. You haven't got a gram of strength in you. Did you see yourself in the mirror?_

Abruptly, Arthur's arms give out and he falls, face smashed into Alfred's bathroom rug. The impact scares him and he lets out an undignified squeak. He hadn't meant to stop. Why had he stopped? What happened? Arthur, who's arms feel like jelly, rolls to his side, gasping. He drags his knees to his chest, feeling himself begin to cry. Fat. Stupid. Weak. Undisciplined. Useless. _I can't even do press-ups._

He presses his face into the fuzzy rug, letting the tears roll down uninhibited. It smells a bit like the cologne Alfred uses sometimes. Thinking of Alfred gets him thinking about the bed where Alfred's warm arms are. He makes an odd sort of keening noise, unable to move for so many reasons.

Alfred had held him earlier, cradled his head, kissed his cheek. He'd been playing with Arthur's hands, demonstrating how he could wrap his whole fist around both of Arthur's wrists at once. "You're so small." He'd said quietly.

Alfred notices. Alfred can see his efforts. All the same, the buoying effect in his chest does nothing. It's hollow. He's not really doing well. He can see it for himself.

As his heart slows, he knows he can probably manage to get up now, but he stays where he is. He doesn't deserve it. Doesn't deserve Alfred's warmth. A shiver traces down his spine. Doesn't deserve... Alfred.

Healthy, wonderful, beautiful Alfred trapped with fat, horrible, ugly Arthur. Waiting for his real prince to save him from the nasty, nasty leech, the imposter, the fake. Then, Alfred can live happily ever after and hopefully Arthur can be somewhere else where he doesn't have to watch. Watch Alfred be happy with someone else, because Alfred is happy. Arthur doesn't make him happy. That's a trick of association. Alfred is the definition of happy. He would be happy either way and he'll be happy long after he realizes how disgusting, disgusting Arthur is and moves on with his wonderful, wonderful life.

Arthur lets his eyes slip closed, thinking of people. People with parasites. People that cut limbs off to be free of traps. He'll let go before that point, he decides. Alfred shouldn't have to lose something for the likes of him, no matter how selfish, _selfish_ he is.


	9. Chapter 9

**_Hi guys! Sorry for not updating in forever. Here is some general info about this story. Thanks so so much for all your support!_**

 ** _Much love, doze_**

 ** _Length_ : I plan for this story to be about 25-30 chapters for any wondering. (that way if you're bored out of your skull you can start the countdown :P)**

 ** _Info on Graphic Scenes_ : Many have asked what I mean by graphic in future chapters, and it's a bit difficult to explain. I don't mean gory or sexual, but triggering and explicit in a bare bones kind of way. Intense hospital scenes are mainly what I'd warn about. I only place strong caution, bc i kno people who are bothered by hospital scenes. My bf can't watch any movies with hospital scenes bc of stuff that's happened to him. Sometimes I'm very abstract with descriptions, and other times I'm practically anal with it. It really depends on what an individual is alright with.**

 **There's a nasty physical side to anorexia that I've noticed a lot of fics don't go into. They leave it at the dramatic puking scenes or the tears, and yes, that is definitely happening. But there's other little things, like what happens to your body when you first start eating again, or how your heart is affected or your metabolism. This story goes from beginning to a large part of recovery so I'll be mentioning touchy, if plain gross issues. I don't want anyone to be negatively affected by my story. It's not pretty. And there's nothing wrong with not reading it if it bothers you.**

* * *

"Arthur... Hey... Arthur, you alright?" Arthur comes to groggily, uncertain where he is. His back aches horribly and his arms are stiff as hell. He realizes quickly that it's still night time. From his spot on the floor, he can see through Alfred's legs out into the dark hallway.

Something warm lays against his cheek. Alfred. Alfred's hand.

"Fuck, you don't feel good. Arthur, I think you have a fever. Are you alright? Hey... careful..."

Arthur ignores him, shunting himself into a half way upright position. All he sees are the tips of his blue toes peeping out from a way-too-large-pair of Alfred's pajama pants. Jesus Christ, he's freezing. He reaches out, grabbing Alfred's warm hand and dragging it to his cheek again, breathing out.

"Hey... did... did something happen? The shower was on... Did you pass out?"

Arthur raises his eyes slowly to look at Alfred. His honey hair is tangled and crazy, glasses crooked, sleepy eyes. The pillow has printed tracks across his face.

"I'm fine." His voice is ridiculously hoarse and he shivers violently.

Alfred isn't convinced, but Arthur can't fight. Can't fight him right now. Can't explain. He grabs Alfred's other hand, trying to glean as much warmth as possible.

Alfred frowns. "Your lips are blue. Your hands..."

Arthur looks at his hands, noting that they're a purple color.

"You're cold. Come here." Alfred puts his hands under Arthur's elbows and begins to lift him. A weird expression crosses his features, fearful? surprised?

Arthur doesn't care, exhausted. He's exhausted. When he's on his feet, he pushes his face against Alfred's chest. "Don't move." He means it as an order, but it sounds more like begging. Alfred is so warm.

Alfred says something about bed.

He guides Arthur through the dark hallway back to the room. In the bed, he pulls Arthur close, enveloping him. Alfred massages the feeling back into his fingers, then his feet and toes. He cups Arthur's face with his hands, until his nose is warm and his cheeks and his ears.

"Stay in bed." Alfred says. "I'll get you some medicine for your fever. Stay in bed."

Stay in bed. Stay in bed. Stay in bed.

Arthur nods wearily, but still gasps when Alfred slips from his grasp. He comes back with a glass of water and a Nyquil.

"Sssh. Take it. It'll help you sleep."

Arthur accepts the glass and the pill. As soon as he's done, he reaches, twisting his fingers in Alfred's shirt.

"There, go to bed. There. Sssh."

Alfred rubs his back, "Sssshhh."

...

"I'm sorry."

"Stop apologizing. Lay back down."

"No, I'm going back to my dorm. I probably tripled your water bill. I'm sorry." Arthur wrinkles his nose, shivering in the morning air. He has one sock on. Where's the other?

"Arthur, you passed out in my bathroom last night. You're not going anywhere."

"I'm sorry."

"Stop apologizing!" Alfred blurts incredulously. He throws back the covers and storms forward. Arthur backs up, heart skipping, and his back hits the wall.

"I'm sorry." he says numbly. Not sure what Alfred wants from him. He's angry.

Alfred scowls. "Goddamnit Arthur! What's the matter?"

"I'm fine." Arthur says mechanically. "I'll leave. You want me to leave."

"I just told you to get your ass back in that bed." Alfred grabs his wrists suddenly. "Look at me."

Arthur can't. His ears are ringing. "Please." He murmurs at the floor. "I'm fine. I just fell asleep in there. Nothing more. Please. I'm sorry."

Something in his tone affects Alfred. Alfred slowly lets go of his wrists, frowning. He mutters something that sounds awfully like, "Always hurting, never helping."

Arthur feels a flash of panic. His heart stutters painfully. He looks up with wide green eyes. What does that mean?

"Alright, Arthur," He says, turning his back and running his fingers through his hair. "You're fine. You're always fine. I'll see you later... Just... try and get some rest for me, okay?"

"Alfred..." Arthur's voice is thicker. He realizes and he spins for the door, slamming it behind him. Just in time too. The tears are hot on his face. Weak. Weak. Weak.

0 0 0

"No, mum. I'm not coming home." Arthur throws his head back in exasperation. The mobile has long since become hot against his ear. He feels as if the conversation has been going on forever. His roommate is trying his best to ignore him over a pile of psychology notes.

"Mum, I told you. I'm staying with friends... Well, it's too late to get tickets! My last final is tomorrow! Prices are bound to have skyrocketed."

Arthur massages his forehead, cursing the headache that hasn't gone away.

"Mum, I'm not coming home. You'd be paying for it anyway... I don't want you to have to pay for it... Because I'm a good son, that's why!... Yes, I know that you're paying for my college... I know! No one knows it better than me!... I don't care if Henry's flying back... What? He won't care if I'm there either!... Who am I staying with? Friends, okay!... Yes, I happen to have friends..."

Arthur sighs heavily. "Don't get all defensive I know you didn't mean it like that. Look... I just really want to stay in Seattle... Mum," he laughs in exasperation. "I don't care if you're making my favorite. I don't want to... Dad?"

Subconsciously, Arthur straightens in his chair, taking his feet off the desk. "Oh... I know... I just want to... Yes, I understand... Yes, yes, yes... You'll pay for the ticket. That's bloody brilliant, but dad, I don't want..."

You're coming home.

Arthur scowls, wondering what's made him so adamant all of a sudden. He never cared before. Arthur couldn't play football. Arthur couldn't play cricket. Arthur didn't like watching sports. Even on their recent holidays, his father has more or less ignored him to play sports with his other brothers. They simply don't have a lot of shared interests.

Even so, Arthur knows when a battle is lost. His parents do pay for his college. He had wanted to pay for some of it, but he only has a student visa and is unable to legally work in the U.S. It has been a tremendous drawback, something his parents always seem to hang over his head. Well, it looks like they've cashed in now.

"Fine," Arthur bites out. "I'll be home for Christmas."

He is not happy.

It's not that he minds terribly. He likes England. It's his home in so many ways. But he'd set his mind on spending time with Alfred. On sleeping in and cuddling and opening presents together. On being awakened by kisses and having afternoon sex on the couch in the middle of everything because they damn well could. (On not falling asleep in the bathroom with the shower on like a fucking idiot...) The disappointment he feels causes him to shove away his usual bag of snack vegetables. He knows he won't be able to stomach them.

"Yes... yes... mum... you'll book the tickets... splendid. Just tell me when the flight is." Arthur says listlessly. "I'll be there."

He hangs up, dropping his head backwards and groaning. His nose insists on dripping like a leaky tap. A headache lurks in the wings, ready to encompass the whole of his consciousness. And now this.

"Hit the finals wall?" His roommate asks, looking quite near it himself.

"It's more that the family boa constrictor has locked me into coming home for Christmas," Arthur admits, glaring at the ceiling. "I don't know what I'm going to tell my boyfriend."

His roommate chuckles. "Merry Fucking Christmas, am I right?"

"Merry Fucking Christmas." Arthur murmurs, thinking that there's nothing better that he'd like to do than get roaring drunk.

0 0 0

He gets about two steps out of the lift when Shelly jumps up beside him. "Guess who's coming to the Christmas party?"

"Not now, Shelly." Arthur pushes her aside, stalking murderously towards the front door.

"What's up with you?" She asks. "You've got one more final! Then you're free for almost four weeks."

"If you mean free in the sense of forcibly shipped back to England, then yes, I'm like a butterfly on the breeze."

Shelly raises her eyebrows, whistling. "Parents."

"Bloody nuisances." Arthur grumbles.

"Have you told Alfred?"

He sighs heavily. "On my way."

"Ah, well. You should come to the-"

"If you say Christmas party one more time, I will lose it." Arthur bites out, pushing open the door.

"There'll be booze."

Arthur looks back, just able to see her through the closed door. She holds up her hands in an innocent shrug. He just shakes his head, stalking off in the general direction of the culinary school. Alfred will probably have his exam at the exact fucking moment Arthur needs to talk to him. It's scheduled for today, and Alfred's been nervous all week.

Upon arriving at the culinary school, Arthur resolves himself to wait in the lobby. The secretary doesn't nod him through like usual, so Alfred is probably presenting for his instructor. As he sits, he grows progressively more anxious, tapping out a heinous rhythm with his shoe.

He doesn't want to tell Alfred. He's disappointed enough as it is. He doesn't think he can stand to make Alfred disappointed too (or make Alfred act disappointed...). He swallows, twining his fingers together. Alfred probably won't be that upset at all. He'll just invite over his myriad of other friends and be happy like always.

"Arthur?"

Arthur jumps, nearly knocking over the miniature tree beside him. "Alfred."

Alfred, who is obviously in a rush, frowns, "What are you doing here? Is something the matter?" He has on his work smock, bag thrown haphazardly over his shoulder.

"I..." I can't stay for Christmas. I want to stay for Christmas. I'm very upset. Will you miss me? "No, n-nothing." Arthur laughs anxiously. "Just... just wanted to ask how your exam went."

"Oh." Alfred smiles. "Great, actually. I only messed up a couple times." He glances towards the door. "Look, I really gotta run. Tomorrow's your last final and then we're home free! One more day and then, well, you know what!" He grins devilishly, bringing the heat to Arthur's cheeks.

Of course, he hasn't forgotten about their spectacular bedtime plans for after finals.

Alfred trips forward to give Arthur a kiss on the cheek. "I'll see you then okay."

"W-wait, what about tonight?" Arthur asks. "Do you work?"

"No, but I have plans." Alfred shifts his weight. "I was pretty sure you'd want to study."

"Oh," Arthur feels his heart plummet. A vague nagging makes him wonder if this has something to do with the bathroom incidence. He can still feel the bottle of Xanax in his coat pocket, forgotten until now. It presses lumpily against his hipbone and he shifts uncomfortably. "That's alright. I'll... I'll see you tomorrow, then."

Alfred throws him another smile, before all but running out the door.

0 0 0

Arthur confines himself to his room for the rest of the day, trying and failing to focus on his French history notes. It's a bit ironic that the class that brought him to Alfred only seems to be taking him away from Alfred now. He traces his thumb down the curled yellow edge of a research book. Alfred does know that he wouldn't have minded hanging out tonight, doesn't he? Of course he would still be studying and it would probably be rather boring for Alfred. (Arthur would consign him to holding up notecards or propping up books.) But still...

Arthur sentences the book to the edge of the desk, massaging his temples delicately.

It doesn't help that his roommate is singing in the shower. "I'm done! I'm done! I'm D-O-N-E, done! Fuck it, bitches!"

"Where are you going?" Arthur asks idly, when he reappears wearing a tacky Christmas jumper and a Santa hat.

"The party. You gunna come?" His roommate flashes him a grin, fixing his fringe in the mirror. "I remember freshman year you were the one that won the shot contest."

Arthur groans, causing his roommate to laugh.

"That was just great. No one expected the kid in the sweater vest to be able to knock 'em back with the seniors. It was even more hilarious, because you had a final the next day. Professor Stanson in Econ 101 looked like she was going to beat your ass."

"Mrmp." Arthur doesn't like to remember that. It was very embarrassing.

His roommate grins, coming over to clap him on the back. "Maybe you should stop by some time tonight. It would be fun for old time's sake." He smirks knowingly. "It doesn't look like you're getting very far any way."

"It's a good thing I didn't get you a Christmas present." Arthur grumbles as his roommate's laughter fades down the hallway.

He sighs, glancing back at his scattered pile of notes. He should study. Really.

0 0 0

When Arthur arrives, he's already decided that he's just going to look around, show his face, and then get the hell back to his dorm for an early night.

The party is held in something the students like to call the Subterranean. It's a fancy name for a cheap ass place hidden in the basement of the first official dorm built on campus. There's no heating. The carpet is ripped up in places and the skuzzy wallpaper releases a funky odor when one stands too near. Several of the more artsy and involved have taken the time to throw up a few wreaths and fairy lights. Their boyfriends were dragged into setting up a decent stereo system. One of them stands guard now, steering curious onlookers away from his expensive set.

Arthur wanders over to one of the white tables set up with punch. He nervously procures himself one, less for drinking and more for looking like he has something to do. He decides that if he can't find Shelly in the next five minutes, he's making the dreadful hike through winter weather back to his bed. All parties to hell.

After awhile, he spots Francis. (Of course.) He means to duck into the ancient kitchen alcove to hide, but Francis is particularly keen tonight. Once Arthur thinks he's made it away...

"You're not really drinking plain punch, are you?"

Arthur jumps, spilling a spot of said punch on the jumper Alfred bought for him. "Oh, shit. Look what you've done, you nosy prick." Arthur shoves his drink on the laminate counter, frowning at the stain in the dim light. "Damn. If I can't get this out..."

Francis rolls his eyes overdramatically. "I don't know why you'd want to get it out. Honestly, Arthur, I've been meaning to have an intervention. Your style has somehow gotten worse from freshman year."

"Oh fuck off." Arthur shakes his head in exasperation. "What do you want anyhow? I didn't-" He cuts off abruptly, looking semi-shocked by what Francis offers him.

"Take it, Arthur. You look so stupid with your mouth open like that."

When Arthur makes no move to take the portable Tide stain remover stick from Francis, Francis simply groans. He reaches forward, grasping Arthur's jumper critically. "I keep it for emergencies. Unlike you, I actually own clothes that are worth something." He rubs the stick into the jumper, clicking his tongue.

His long golden blonde hair tickles against Arthur's cheeks as he works. The smell of his cologne creates a surprisingly nice bubble. Though for appearance's sake, Arthur pretends to be choking on it. Francis only smirks. "So, latest rumor has it you've found a new beau. How does it feel to be off the market for the first time?"

"I've had a boyfriend before." Arthur grumbles, wondering how long it takes him to rub Tide on a jumper.

"Here?"

"Well, no." Arthur scowls. "Only because I haven't wanted to."

"Right."

"Don't say right in that tone." Arthur snaps. "You don't know anything about my personal life."

Francis chuckles. "My god, Arthur, be a little more defensive." He pauses in his stain-removing. "It's Alfred, isn't it? That's his name. The cooking student who made such exquisite food?" At Arthur's dumbfounded look, he continues. "Shelly

has told me."

"Thank you for reminding me to kill her." Arthur says irritably. "She takes nothing in confidence."

Francis sighs. He smoothes over the nearly vanished stain with his thumb. "Don't get mad at her for nothing. She was obviously happy for you. I don't know what she sees to get so worked up over. From what I've seen, you prefer to be alone."

Arthur bristles a bit, shifting uncomfortably. "How could you-"

"Know that?" Francis finishes his sentence. "Well, my god, it's the air you put on if nothing else. I'm surprised you came tonight. You never seem to be out and looking. Understand me?" He doesn't say anything for a moment, before concluding. "Alfred must be a special boy."

"W-well, I wouldn't-" Arthur blusters, feeling that Francis is altogether much too close to him. (And perhaps too close to the truth.)

Francis lets go of his jumper, pocketing the Tide stick. "Either that or you are particularly good at pretending that you aren't lonely." He flashes an irritating grin. "Why come to America after all if you aren't going to eat the food?"

Arthur flinches before he realizes what Francis is getting at and reddens. "If you're saying I decided to study abroad because I wanted an American boy, then you couldn't be more wrong."

Francis shrugs. "You certainly didn't come here for a French boy or a British boy."

"I didn't come here for a boy." Arthur spits, pushing away from him.

"Not at first."

"Not at all!"

"I heard you were staying for Christmas." Arthur turns back around to find Francis smirking. "Why is that? Not a boy?"

"Oh fuck off. I'm not actually. I'm going home."

Francis' eyebrows disappear in his fringe. "Really? Shelly is misinformed. What did you tell Alfred?"

Arthur grits his teeth.

"You didn't?" Francis almost looks gleefully amused. "You can't build a relationship on lies, my friend. And I know Alfred; he will not stand for them."

"You don't know shit about Alfred." Arthur feels himself getting irrationally angry, but something about Francis' latest word vomit has hit uncannily home. He stalks forward to jab his thumb to Francis chest, green eyes narrowed furiously. He's about a whole head shorter than Francis, but for fuck if he couldn't beat the frog to Mars and back.

Francis' eyes glitter. "Have you ever heard of the Foodie Friends?"

"No and I don't see why I should give a damn." Arthur puts his palm to Francis' chest and pushes provocatively.

Francis takes a step back, smirking. "Alfred has."

"Lovely." Arthur pushes again, harder.

Francis steals himself. "I have."

"That's just wonderful." Arthur puts both his palms to Francis' chest and pushes. He feels a rush of adrenaline when Francis is forced to back up or fall over.

"I've cooked with him." Francis continues edgily. "He's the best with Texan, American, whatever they call it. But his French isn't terrible. He has a flair for Asian, though probably because of his best friend. Kiku, have you met Kiku?"

"Yes." Arthur grounds out, slowly dropping his hands to his sides. Only briefly, though... and he hadn't known that Kiku was Alfred's best friend. He'd thought it was one of those other idiots.

"Alfred and Kiku are such interesting people." Francis murmurs. "Did you know Alfred met him through a chat room five

years before Kiku came to train in Seattle? It's such a fascinating story. Did you know Alfred's dream is to eventually move to Japan and learn how to make makisushi, sashimi, and onigiri the proper way?"

"N-no," Arthur says unsteadily. Alfred had never said anything about Japan.

"Really?" Francis is surprised. "He won't shut up about it when he's cooking. Kiku still laughs at some of his attempts. The flavors are right, but the presentation is..." Francis laughs at some memory. "Wanting. So, he hasn't told you any of this?"

"No."

"Oh, shame." Francis shrugs. "When I think of Alfred, I think of cooking. It's who he is."

Arthur doesn't quite understand the sinking in his chest. Alfred hardly ever talks about his culinary adventures, at least not like Francis is describing. Sure, he's watched Alfred cook, but usually... usually Alfred finishes up pretty quickly when he arrives.

"Like fuck you know who Alfred is..." He mutters, though it sounds pretty pitiful.

Francis shrugs. "Better than you apparently."

It's the last straw. The day hasn't had one particular instance more dreadful than another, but all the small things have piled up. Arthur can't take thinking that Francis knows his boyfriend better than he does. That arrogant, insufferable, pompous little...

"Jerk!" He snaps and punches Francis flat in the face.

Arthur inhales sharply and backs up just as quickly. He looks at his hand to realize that one of his fingers is slightly out of place. Fucking beautiful. The frog's face broke his hand. "Jesus fucking Christ," he mutters as he inspects it. Street fights had been his forte as a wily London teenager and never before had he encountered this particular problem.

Francis is aggravatingly unruffled. He rubs the side of his cheek, only looking marginally sour. "Looks like you need calcium, my friend." He kids annoyingly.

"Don't try me," Arthur growls, still feeling shaken. Francis isn't even hurt. Damn, his ego is taking a beating today, is it not?

"Arthur!"

They both look over to see a very confused looking Shelly. "What are you doing here?" She asks.

"Partying, obviously," Francis smirks. "You might want some ice for that."

Arthur grits his teeth. "I'm going back to the dorm. Bloody brilliant idea, Shelly. Come to the party," He puts on an outlandish impression of her voice. "It'll be so much fun."

She simply stares. "Did you break your hand?"

"Finger." He corrects smoothly.

"Doing... oh." She looks at Francis and then sighs. "You two belong in a zoo."

"Arthur is just happy that I am too civilized to sue." Francis smacks him patronizingly on the cheek. Arthur wonders if it's worth breaking his other hand to annoy Francis. As it is, he just lets out a tepid growl.

"I'm leaving."

Shelly laughs nervously. "Good idea."

This causes him to pause. He and Francis both raise their eyebrows. She's always on Arthur about going out more and participating and being social. It's practically her trope. To hear this come from her mouth even after Arthur breaks his finger is remarkably unusual.

"Good idea?" Arthur says half-joking, half-serious. "By god, you could at least pretend to want me around."

"No, Arthur," She twists her fingers, looking distressed. "He said you weren't coming. I was surprised. I just... I don't want

to cause trouble."

"Trouble?" Francis blinks. "What other people have you been punching, Arthur?"

Arthur frowns. "Don't be silly. I'm the civilized one. What are you talking about, Shelly?"

"Arthur?"

It feels like the fifty-thousandth time that someone has called his name today. He looks over his shoulder and blinks in shock. "Alfred."

"O-oh." Shelly exhales painfully, falling to Francis' side. She tugs on his sleeve insistently before murmuring something in French.

At the moment, Arthur doesn't care about their shenanigans because he feels like he's been sucked back into the secondary school blues. Alfred was going to go to the party without him?

"Arthur..." Alfred shifts awkwardly. "I thought you were going to study." He's dressed rather nicely. His hair is slicked sloppily back. A few stray strands graze his forehead and the ever present cowlick bounces jauntily. It's not fair that he can be so incredibly handsome with only a few minutes work.

"I'm prepared enough." Arthur says flatly. "What are you doing here?"

"Shelly invited me." Alfred sighs, scratching the back of his neck. "Look, Arthur, don't be upset over something-" "I'm not upset!" Arthur snaps, feeling his cheeks go red. "I just wonder really how you end up going to one of my school's parties without informing me."

"Do I have to inform you when I'm going to a party?" Alfred asks irritably.

Arthur's teeth set. He can feel Shelly and Francis watching and to hell if he's going to fight with his boyfriend in front of the two of them. Alfred can go wherever he so pleases. He just shouldn't expect Arthur to be happy about it. "I'm going," Arthur says flatly. He holds up his hand for Alfred to see out of some childish desire to garner affection. "I broke my finger."

The stimulus has the desired effect. Alfred's eyes fill with concern. "Holy shit, Arthur. What happened?"

"Nothing," he says icily, side-stepping Alfred and heading for the door.

"Oh, come on," Alfred groans and follows after him. "Arthur... stop!"

He catches Arthur by his wrist and holds him by the door. "Wait a minute, okay?"

Arthur glowers.

"We're both acting really childish." Alfred says reasonably. "I should have told you. I just... I..." He scowls, looking agitated. "You haven't been feeling well and I didn't think it was a good idea for you to come."

Arthur's eyebrows shoot up and he stares in disbelief. "Wow, Alfred. Your ability to lie under pressure truly astounds me."

Alfred's brows crumple in hurt. "It's the truth!"

"Oh, yes, wonderful. So while you don't want me to go to the party, you decide to go to the party and have yourself a little Coors for the both of us? Fuck off." He jerks back, trying to get his wrist free.

"Arthur... I..." Alfred sighs. "I shouldn't have come. I didn't want to bother you while you were studying and I, well, I like parties, okay? Is that a sin? I'm sorry, alright? I'm really sorry. Please listen to me."

Arthur scowls fiercely, his heart thundering. He still feels betrayed. Even if it's stupid. Alfred is supposed to be his. Now, it seems that Francis and Shelly know more and see more of Alfred than he does. Coupled with the fact that he won't see Alfred for some four weeks of break, he feels like his last remaining source of sanity is leaking away.

He doesn't feel like staying, but he also doesn't feel like leaving. Leaving equals Alfred alone with Francis and Shelly, and Arthur, despite being beyond annoyed, certainly doesn't want that.

"I'm going to get a drink," He grumbles, pushing past Alfred.

Alfred trails behind him, looking practically constipated.

"This is the most spectacular Christmas party I've been to yet." Francis laughs, clinking his beer bottle with Shelly's, who grimaces.

Soon the four of them are lounging off at a set of tables. Arthur can't help wishing they would stop following him, but at the same time he doesn't want Alfred alone. Francis seems to be having far too much fun laughing at his misery. Arthur swallows the vodka straight, wincing as it burns.

Alfred is looking at him with a mixture of anger and exasperation, but he hasn't moved from the table yet. His fist props his head up and he plays with a Grinch figurine that someone brought to decorate the tables. Shelly and Francis are talking in French.

"Smirnoff?" Alfred asks after a moment, stopping Arthur's hand from its steady path to the bottle.

"Can't you read?" Arthur shrugs him away, grabbing the bottle and spritzing some into his Solo cup. It's meant for spiking the punch, but Arthur has commandeered it for his purposes. Last party, they'd had Everclear Proof 151, which in his opinion is a much straighter way to drunk. 75 percent alcohol content and anybody could only last so long. Plus, Smirnoff ends up tasting like rubbing alcohol after awhile.

Alfred frowns. "What? I can't have any?"

"Underage."

"Um..." Alfred snorts. "How old do you think I am? I'm twenty-one, thank you very much."

"Protecting you then," Arthur grumbles, wincing as it burns his throat.

"How thoughtful."

"Just about as thoughtful as you ditching me and going to the party yourself." Arthur burps into his palm, thinking that he'd like to lay his cheek on the table now.

Alfred sighs. "Okay, okay, I'm an idiot. I didn't think it'd be any fun without you honestly. I was just looking for something to do. I've had a lot on my mind."

Arthur grunts noncommittally, but flashes a quick look at Alfred's face. He seems sincere enough. "So you didn't tell me because you were embarrassed?"

"Embarrassed?" Alfred blinks. "Of what?"

"Me."

"You?" Alfred laughs. "Why would I be embarrassed of you?" He flicks Arthur's ear playfully. A sad smile teases his lips. "I promise," Alfred continues, "that it wasn't because I didn't want to be with you or anything. We'll be with each other all break after all!" Arthur doesn't notice him carefully slip away the bottle of Smirnoff.

All of break. Right. A lump clogs up Arthur's throat and he nods. Looking for a distraction he pulls out his mobile and begins fiddling with it. A couple messages await him and he frowns. His mum.

Booked flight tomorrow 2:30pm layovers in St. Louis & NYC. Tickets under Ralph Kirkland. Will pick up at the airport. See u soon!

He scowls. That early? They couldn't have given him a couple of days to himself. Bloody hell. He won't even-

It hits him like a ton of bricks, disappointment so hard and so cold that it knocks the breath out of him for a moment. In retrospect, it's absolutely silly with world issues and poverty and other more important things than his meaningless little life. But... well, if he leaves so soon, he and Alfred won't be able to keep their plans for after his last final.

He clenches the phone in his fist, gritting his teeth furiously. His stupid finger, Alfred's odd behavior, now this! Sometimes... sometimes, he feels like he could just-

"Arthur," Alfred's voice breaks his haze, sounding worried. "What's the matter? Is something wrong?"

He looks at Alfred's wide blue gaze and can feel himself beginning to crumble. "Alfred, I... I can't stay for Christmas."

"You can't? Why not?" Alfred frowns. "Did something come up back home? Is that why you're acting so odd?" He almost sounds hopeful, though Arthur doesn't pay much thought to this oddity.

"No," he whispers. "My parents want me to come home. I just can't stay."

"Oh." Alfred frowns and Arthur's heart thumps wildly so much so that it's hurting again. He can't really feel the fingers on his left hand. His bicep is going numb. He finds himself leaning so much on Alfred's reaction, and all Alfred has to say is "Oh". The tears gang up irrationally and he quickly turns his face away from Shelly and Francis, unable to bear them seeing. Dear god, he's turning into such a muppet.

Alfred touches his cheek. "Hey, let's go get some punch."

They get to the corner and Alfred pulls him into a hug with a rusty sigh. "Things have been hard recently, haven't they?" He begins awkwardly. He combs his fingers through Arthur's hair. "Do you want to talk?"

"No, I'm fine," Arthur grounds out, but the tears continue to fall and he keeps his face pressed into Alfred's chest. Hating it.

"Listen, I know... I know this isn't what you planned or wanted, but maybe it'll be good to go back home for awhile."

Arthur scowls. Alfred doesn't understand. Of course, he wouldn't understand. "Just say that you don't care either way," he snarls.

Alfred frowns, pulling back. He tips up Arthur's chin and the look in his eyes is full of confusion. "I'm disappointed. Of course, I don't want you to leave. Why would you say that?"

"I..." Arthur stumbles, feeling his cheeks redden. "I have to leave tomorrow! We won't even get to... to... like you promised!"

Alfred sighs. "Well, that sucks." He surmises with a grim sort of smile.

Arthur scowls at him.

"You're going to come back, Arthur," Alfred points out almost in exasperation. "Of course, I want to spend Christmas with you! I've been looking forward to it so much. But if your family wants you, who am I to deny? I'm upset, but you're not leaving forever! You're going to come back! And when you do, why, let me tell you..." He trails to grin devilishly, pushing his lips against Arthur's jaw bone. "We'll shake this country hard enough that it sends a wave crashing over England, alright?" He tickles his fingers down Arthur's sides playfully, causing him to squirm. "We'll get there," he promises warmly. "All in good time."

Arthur groans, crossing his arms tightly across his chest. It's not just about the sex. That's just the icing on the proverbial, sickening cake. "Your sex ideas really haven't improved."

"Hey," Alfred pouts. "I just need practice."

His ludicrous faces manage to ease the tension from Arthur's shoulders somewhat and he scrubs ruefully at his eyes. "You must think me such a baby." He says, watching Alfred through his fingers.

Alfred frowns. "Not really. No. I think one thing builds on another and so on until finally, well, someone runs by and the house of cards falls, you know?"

Arthur shrugs mulishly.

"I mean," Alfred sighs, leaning back against the wall. "When I make spaghetti, sometimes I forget to make the sauce. I have the noodles and the plate, but it really doesn't matter then. There's something I'm missing. I can't complete the whole puzzle."

Arthur shakes his head, massaging his temples. "You're bloody awful at metaphors, Alfred. If I hadn't known better, I'd say you've been drinking the Smirnoff."

Alfred gives a high-pitched laugh, swinging an arm over his shoulders. "Better me than you."


	10. Chapter 10

His alarm shocks him to life. Arthur drives his hand down on it viciously only to cry out in pain. His crooked ring finger twinges sharply, forcing tears in his eyes. He ought to set it, but he doesn't have the time right now. He slides to his feet with his eyes mostly closed.

Groping around in his drawers, he procures a baggy cardigan and a brown cotton t-shirt. He makes use of his most comfortable chinos. After all, he'll be spending basically the whole day on a plane. He hadn't wanted to get up so early, but he needs to pack. After his final, he's only stopping to grab his stuff before going to the airport.

A soft knock on the door arrests his groggy attention and Arthur pads over wearily. Alfred stands in the hall with wild bed hair. In fact, Arthur's eyes trail downwards, he's still in his Color Run hoodie and plaid pajama pants.

"Back to monitor my alcohol content?" He says slowly, scrapping a hand over his face.

Alfred shrugs lightly. "You'd be feeling worse if I hadn't."

Arthur merely grunts, unsure if it's possible to feel any worse. He knows he's only irritated with Alfred's intervention on a topical level. Secretly, he's rather thankful. If he had gotten drunk last night, any number of things would have gone wrong.

Alfred holds up a Walgreen's sack with a lopsided grin. "If you'll stop being such a grouch, I brought you some stuff. Mind if I come in?"

"Oh." Arthur shakes his head, stepping back. He half falls to sit on the floor.

Alfred hesitates, glancing at the occupied bed of his roommate.

"He won't wake." Arthur mumbles, folding up another of his shirts and tucking it into his small black bag. "He was drunk last night. Don't worry about him."

"Alright." Alfred says quietly. He sinks to sit by Arthur, watching him pack in silence. "Do you have a ride to the airport?"

"Taxi." Arthur murmurs.

Alfred snorts. "Don't spend money on that. Let me take you. I've got a car."

Arthur considers, before shrugging. "Okay."

"I'll pick you up after your test and we'll go." Alfred yawns, bending to rummage in his Walgreen's bag. "Alright, so... Let's see. I got you some Nyquil in case you start feeling bad. This cute neck pillow thing with a cat pattern. Some beef jerky, which I know you probably won't like, but whatever. I can eat it when you get back. Here's some earplugs because planes. Fuzzy socks, they were actually on sale, and they're green so I thought of you. Also bought you some Lipton so you can remember America's shitty tea selection while you're over there in the lap of luxury..."

Arthur blinks in disbelief at the steady pile he's amassing. "Alfred."

"Hold on, I'm not finished. There's a Sudoku book and a couple crosswords. I picked up the newspaper. This," he presents some beat up paperbacks, "is my favorite Sci-fi series and I expect you to read it while you're gone. We'll have an in depth analysis later. I will quiz you so don't think you can get away with online summaries." He tosses the books in Arthur's lap, nearing the bottom of his bag. "Oh! Two more things. I'm not sure if you'll be able to call, but this," he holds out a note card, "is my Skype address so we can talk. Don't worry about it too much if you're busy. Just message me sometime and I'll definitely be on to talk. Lastly, here's my souvenir money." He shoves a wad of cash in Arthur's hand. "I expect you to get me at least one thing cool, and then you can just go for a bunch of obnoxious Union Jack paraphernalia."

Alfred grins boyishly.

"You didn't have to do this," Arthur mutters, feeling overwhelmed.

"Well," Alfred shrugs, bumping Arthur's shoulder with his. "I know that. I also happen to know that you suck balls at taking care of yourself, so I got you all the plane essentials. You'll be thanking me in a few hours when your feet are freezing and that baby the row behind won't shut up."

Arthur snorts wryly as he begins to carefully pack all that Alfred has given him. He doesn't like to admit it, but he is terribly sentimental when it comes to trinkets. It's a nice thought, curling up with one of Alfred's goofy books and effectively excluding himself from unwanted family gatherings. He pauses, holding the fuzzy socks. After a moment, he yanks the tag off with his teeth and slips off his loafers.

"Good luck for the exam," He explains, causing Alfred to laugh. His loafers are a bit tight with them, but they certainly won't fail to keep his toes warm.

"You'll do well, Arthur. You always do." Alfred smiles, reaching forward to squeeze his toes teasingly. "I don't doubt it."

A blush creeps into Arthur's cheeks and he shrugs ruefully. It's nice to be missed, at least.

"Oh! One more thing!" Alfred remembers suddenly. Reaching into his hoodie pocket, he pulls out a splint and some medical tape. "My brother used to break my fingers all the time when we played hockey, so I thought I could hook you up."

Arthur pretends to grumble, but he doesn't mind much as Alfred carefully sets his finger and wraps the tape over it. "I've broken my finger before. I know what to do."

Alfred smirks, "Oh come on, your fingers are so straight. No way." When he finishes, he holds out his hand to reveal a surprisingly mangled set of fingers. Arthur hadn't noticed before. "See, Matt shut this one in a door and sliced this one with his ice skates. My dog thought this one was a sausage, and when I was in third grade a bird pooped on this hand while we were drawing with chalk."

Arthur raises his eyebrows.

"Well, I know that's not breaking it, but it was pretty traumatic." Alfred says defensively.

"Oh, you poor dear." Arthur holds out his own hand, noticeably smaller than Alfred's. "I broke this one when I punched a bloke for making fun of my hair dyed. And this one when-"

"Wait, you dyed your hair?" Alfred interrupts, looking beyond amused.

Arthur shrugs. "A couple times."

"Like... regular colors?"

"Not particularly. I liked blues and greens."

"That's," Alfred laughs. "awesome. Really awesome."

Arthur blushes a bit. He had been prepared to defend his younger self, but Alfred actually seems impressed.

They stare at each other, until Alfred laughs again. "I wish I knew you when you were younger."

"Why?" Arthur says blankly, unable to comprehend why anybody would want to know him during that phase.

"Well, don't you?" Alfred demands, sprawling on his back.

"Don't I what?"

"Wish you knew me when I was younger? I've always been envious of people who've known each other forever. High school sweethearts or even farther back, like elementary school sweethearts. And when they grow up, they get married and they move into the same neighborhood they lived in when they were kids. It's just... romantic."

Arthur grunts noncommittally. "You seem to have thought about it."

Alfred shrugs. "Yeah, call me a sap. But hopefully, then, I won't waste time dating people I don't have a future with."

Arthur pretends to be interested in his suitcase zipper as he can feel Alfred staring at him.

"Well," Alfred continues after a minute. "Now you can give me an update on how everyone is doing. All your brothers will be there, right?"

Arthur nods.

"How many brothers do you have?"

"Three."

"All older?"

Arthur nods again.

"Damn," Alfred laughs. "Matthew and I are twins, so no competition there. Well, he was born first, but I think that's shit anyway." Alfred sticks out his tongue.

Arthur doesn't say anything, so Alfred keeps rambling on.

"Matthew's not a bad guy, though. He's in Ontario right now, studying environmental science. He's got a real thing for nature. He's one of those weirdos that just likes to walk in the woods for hours."

"Your family sounds interesting." Arthur chuckles, tucking his last shirt into the suitcase.

"Eh," Alfred shrugs. "Matthew is anyway. What about you? With three older brothers, you'd have to have some ridiculous stories."

Arthur snorts. "I'm renowned for staying out of stupidity, actually."

"Oh, sure you are," Alfred grins teasingly. "You can't have been smart all your life, Arthur. You're bound to have given in at some point."

Arthur just shakes his head, leaning into to kiss Alfred gently on the lips. "No embarrassing stories today. I have to get to my exam."

Alfred pouts, but gets to his feet, offering Arthur his hand. "I'll see you afterwards, alright? Just text me when you're done."

They stand unusually close and everything is silent for the second. It doesn't feel like it's going to last, but Arthur takes the moment to feel nice. He looks at Alfred and thinks that, even if they're both rather horrible at communicating, he's incredibly happy things have turned out the way they have. It means a lot to him that Alfred came. Feeling that he'll never quite be able to express himself, Arthur pushes himself on his toes to peck Alfred on the lips.

"You're entirely too thoughtful sometimes, you berk. I hope you catch cold walking campus in your pajamas."

Alfred snorts, pushing him away playfully.

Arthur hopes that Alfred understands. _Thank you._

0 0 0

Alfred cocks his head grinning. The Santa hat barely clings to his wily honey hair. His Christmas jumper radiates unnatural red, so that he sticks out painfully against the gray all around. He leans up against his Subaru, singing aloud to the blaring car radio.

"Cuz Santa Claus is coming to town..."

He seems utterly oblivious to the incredulous looks of the students, harrowed and dizzy from their final. He has eyes only for Arthur and they sparkle impossibly blue. Shelly begins to laugh, pushing Arthur down the stairs. He scowls back at her, slipping a little on the pavement. Next thing he breaks will be his neck with these antics. But Alfred's toothy grin is somewhat contagious. Arthur can only just hold his dignified scowl.

"Ready?" Alfred asks when he gets near enough.

Arthur rolls his eyes. "What are you trying to do? Get the whole school's attention?"

"Nope," Alfred smiles. "Just yours."

His cheeky grin brings a blush to Arthur's already weather-beaten cheeks. Before Alfred can see, he shoves around to the other side, grumbling about obnoxious attention seekers.

"Got you tea," Alfred says, jacking up the heater. "Not sure what kind though. Hopefully, it's alright. I took the girl's suggestion."

Arthur blinks in surprise, but carefully lifts the cup and sips. "Chamomile."

"Is it good?"

"Relaxing."

Alfred beams, "Awesome."

"They also had some fruit cups. She said they were really fresh. I got you one if you want it. I know you don't like heavy stuff." Alfred shrugs carelessly. He has a sack of McDonald's resting between his own legs and is unashamedly munching hashbrowns.

Arthur eyes the small fruit cup, finding himself oddly less apprehensive than he might have been. Alfred doesn't make a point of it, merely puts the car in drive and turns up the radio.

Arthur settles back against the worn fabric of the seat, letting his head drop back. He sips his tea in the silence. He's trying very hard not to dread the upcoming 14 hours of flight time. Since his mum unwittingly booked a broken flight, it's going to take longer with the layovers.

"You alright?" Alfred grins tiredly.

"Fine." Arthur just shakes his head.

"Do you think you'll be able to Skype me?" Alfred asks.

"I'll try." Arthur sighs into his tea. "There's a bit of a time zone difference."

"Eight hours, don't I know it." Alfred groans, but then smiles. "I don't care though. Whenever you message, I'll be on. It's going to be so boring in the apartment by myself. I was thinking of doing an advent calendar. I mean we're a bit late, but hey, I can send you pics every day."

"Wonderful." Arthur picks at the lid of the fruit cup, quietly. The rest of the ride is spent mostly in silence. He eats a couple blueberries and nibbles on a strawberry, unable to help watching Alfred for a reaction. There is none. If Alfred notices, he doesn't make a scene of it. Arthur's shoulders relax just a bit. The apples taste fairly nice with the soft bite of the Chamomile tea.

Huh. It's been awhile since he tasted his food, hasn't it?

Alfred is nearing the airport, having to brake more often at the onslaught of sudden traffic. Arthur wiggles his toes in his loafers, feeling the fabric of his fuzzy socks. The heater manages to work its way through his shoes to heat up his feet. He looks about the car for the first time, appreciating it for its undeniable Alfred-ness.

A pile of CDs totters by the gear shift, along with a myriad of gum wrappers and Happy Meal toys. The floor probably has never felt the mercy of a vacuum cleaner what with its assorted collection of crumbs. Arthur bends to pick up some Captain America sunglasses and a gay pride bandana, unable to help smiling softly. There's a receipt for a glow in the dark skeleton and a Ninja blender. One of Alfred's ancient looking trainers is shoved sloppily beneath his seat. Arthur finds a Key Lime Pie scented air freshener along with an old dog collar.

"Cleaning my car?" Alfred remarks in bemusement. "Geez, you never stop being so Arthur, do you?"

"I'm afraid not, you utter slob." Arthur sighs, dropping the items back on the floor. It reminds him uncannily of being taken to play at the toy shop. He used to pick up as many stuffed animals as possible, but when it was time to go, he had to leave them all back in their places. His older brother dragged him out impatiently by the hand, while he watched over his shoulder, hoping that they would miss him as much as he missed them.

"Wellp. We're here." Alfred announces, parking the car in a fifteen minute slot. "Come on, I'll help you with your bag."

They bluster their way through the cold and the sizable crowds. Many people are heading home for Christmas. Once they enter, Arthur peers around for the correct kiosk to procure his ticket. Alfred pops out the handle of the wheeling suitcase, pressing it into Arthur's palm.

"I'll see you sooner than you think." He promises, pulling Arthur to the side and out of the way.

"I doubt that," Arthur can't help saying. He's somewhat surprised by how badly he doesn't want to go. Even that special feeling- seeing Trafalgar Square and walking along the Thames after a long time away- fails to excite him like it used to. Instead, he misses Alfred's larger bed and ripped up furniture. Hell, he even misses Alfred's bathroom rug if that means anything.

Alfred just kisses him fondly, scrubbing a hand through his wind-blown hair. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you were turning into a real American."

"Bollocks." Arthur says with a rueful smile that gets Alfred laughing.

They kiss again. Alfred makes him promise to Skype. And then he leaves.

And Arthur is alone.

He gathers himself with a deep sigh and trudges forward to get his ticket.

0 0 0

The flight is uneventful and monotonous. Arthur makes use of the earplugs Alfred got for him, as well as the books. Which, surprisingly, aren't as bad as he feared. The first in the series is so very Alfred that he instantly likes it. He decides that he'll have to come up with a list of criticisms so that Alfred doesn't figure that out though.

This occupies him for quite some time. Notebook in hand, he jams on the hero for being entirely too invincible and the love interest for being flatter than a pancake. Yet, the story still holds Arthur's attention for its marvelous sense of impossible adventure. He makes a mental note to recommend some books for Alfred now that he knows Alfred's style (and that Alfred actually reads). He eventually heeds the irritated glares of his fellow passengers and flips off the reading light. It is late, whatever the hell time it is.

He holds the neck pillow against his chest rather than behind his head, having found that Alfred's cologne lingers on the fabric. Arthur blushes in the dark at his own ridiculous thoughts, but it does help to ease the pain in his chest somewhat with his nose smashed unflatteringly against the goofy cat pattern.

When the last flight lands, Arthur's sense of time has entirely left him. Outside, the day is shiny and bright and high noon. The air is English, if that even makes sense, and everything feels remarkably like home. Yet, it's hard to be excited. He left his equilibrium somewhere back in the States. All he wants to do is lie down and sleep forever. As he passes the flight attendant, he drops his uneaten packs of peanuts in her bin bag, shaking himself.

The bustling, booming branch of Heathrow greets him and he finds it somewhat odd to hear accents like his own after being so long away. Rounding the corner, he spots some familiar faces. The sandy blonde head of his young cousin Peter, swinging off the arm of his least favorite aunt. His oldest brother, Murtagh, keeping an eye on the third oldest, James, who though nearly 26 still has the tendency to get lost. Murtagh's wife is holding their son, who Arthur will be meeting for the first time.

It's his own mum that greets him with strangling enthusiasm. "Oh, teddy bear! It's so good to see you. I had been so worried that you were going to slip out on us again. And we haven't seen you since July." She grabs his face and kisses his cheek, brushing at his fringe. "Oh, that's getting much too long. You need a haircut. We can take you later when we go shopping."

Arthur rubs her back, in a longsuffering way that gets James snickering. "I missed you, too." He tells her, wondering if he has enough time to flash James the birdie before their mum sees.

"Come on, Mum," Murtagh interjects. "I'm sure Arthur'd like to get back and relax for awhile. It's a long flight. You can take him dress shopping later."

James snickers again, coming by to punch Arthur playfully in the side. "She's just so glad to have her teddy bear back."

Arthur merely sighs. Sometimes, being the youngest really does have its drawbacks.

He follows his boisterous family out the door and it seems like everyone is trying to tell him something. Peter raves about his new goldfish. Peter's mother manages to get in a question or two about Arthur's sex life. (Brilliant dinner conversation fodder, really). James is singularly interested in whether peanut butter is really a burger topping. And his mum just never stops.

Arthur tries to take it in stride. But when his one syllable answers fail to ward them off, he starts to get frustrated. Then, his mum falls to the topic of lunch. Everyone is agreeable with splurging a little. It's the holidays after all. Arthur has come home and soon Henry will arrive from Pondicherry.

("He's doing a study on old colonies there, Arthur! That's just the sort of thing you'd enjoy.")

Arthur gives her a listless nod, trying to come up with a way to skip lunch and just head home. When Murtagh's boy starts to cry, he nearly laughs with relief.

"I can help her find the way back," he volunteers for Murtagh, who's anxious about his wife wandering by herself in such a big city. Arthur would also bet that Murtagh still has to pick up his Christmas presents and is looking for just the moment.

"Alright, Arthur," Murtagh runs a hand through his messy, red curls. "You know the way. He'll show you there, Jewels."

She offers Arthur a grateful smile as she wrestles to keep hold of the rambunctious baby. His wild red hair and thick eyebrows make him undeniably a Kirkland boy.

"But Arthur," His mum begins. "When will you eat? You must be starving."

"Actually mum, I'm just sleepy." He forces a tired smile and prays to whatever exists that she'll let him leave. Her green eyes narrow suspiciously. Call it mother's intuition. She starts to make another objection, but this time it's his aunt that interrupts.

"Oh, let him leave, Mary. He can take Peter and Jewels back with him. We both still have a little shopping to do, and it would be much easier without the children."

Arthur gets the uncanny feeling that she's grouping him with 'the children'.

His mum sighs. "Oh, alright. Make sure you get something at home, Arthur," she nags and he rolls his eyes.

"Come along, Peter." He holds out his hand and Peter swings from his aunt's to Arthur's, howling like an ape man.

"Are we gunna go to the toy shop, Bear?"

"My name is Arthur," Arthur grumbles, cursing the bleeding nickname to hell and back.

Peter pays him no mind as he leads the way to the tube. "But are we?"

"Not today."

"Not ever?"

"Not if you keep bothering me." Arthur snarls, mumbling an apology as he almost trips an elderly man with his luggage.

Murtagh's wife, Jewels, laughs a little. Her blue-eyed baby peers at him over her shoulder. His odd gaze reminds Arthur of another wide-eyed, blue-eyed goofball.

"What's his name?" Arthur asks as they board the tube.

"Daniel." She smiles proudly, bouncing him a bit. "Looks like he's excited to meet his uncle."

Arthur wrinkles his nose at being called uncle, causing her to laugh again. He leans his head back against the window, thankful that the ride will take awhile to get them to their destination. It's a bit overwhelming, being dunked in the family setting again. Back where he's little teddy bear, and an oddity, and the gay, literate one.

These are the people that changed his diaper and watched him learn how to swim. Yet, sometimes he feels like they don't know him at all. His new life in Seattle, his friends there, his classes, his struggles, his... boyfriend. It's always disconcerting to return to this side of reality, where his mother still hovers and he still feels that odd need to earn his father's respect.

They get off the tube after a good twenty minutes. It's a short walk down the pavement before they reach Arthur's old neighborhood. His parents haven't moved since that first time when he was fifteen.

The silent houses twinkle regally with expensive fairy lights and metalwork snowflakes. The hedges, though colorless this time of year, are neatly trimmed. Arthur knows the gardens in the back of each little property to be immaculate.

A man walks a well-groomed, pure bred down the street. His bright watch catches Arthur's eye, as well as the brilliant band of his expensive wedding ring. Peter, dressed neatly in his little Nordstrom peacoat, fits in without trying.

Indeed... what a scandal it had been when he first came home with green hair...

"Hurry up, Arthur," Peter tugs him down the pavement impatiently.

But Arthur doesn't go much faster, feeling lost in a sudden sea of memories. Last summer, he had stayed away from his parents' house out in a little flat in Bristol. He really hasn't been back for some time.

Jewels knows where she's going, hurrying towards the door three houses down. She hushes her baby, promising of warmth with gentle kisses. Peter's hand slips from Arthur's and he bounds forward as well. He taps the gilded Kirkland lion on the gate for good luck before pushing it open for her with a charming smile.

The great oak door groans on its hinges to greet them. Arthur's father stands in the doorway. The patriarch, Arthur thinks wryly. Just inside, he spots Peter's father, the original owner of the shop chain that had made them all rich.

"Well, hurry in, hurry in," His father commands Jewels in a rich voice. Peter bounces behind her, eager to get where it's warm. But Arthur only stands with his hand on the lion at the gate. The splint on his finger keeps him from feeling the odd point of its ears.

His father raises those thick eyebrows at him and says, "Well, are you coming, boy?"

Arthur nods mutely. He struggles lifting his luggage up the stairs, before he feels his father's rough hands clasp over his. The solid bulk of his father's chest as he takes it away is hard against Arthur's shoulder. It's as if he's suddenly thrown back in time when he meets his father's drooping brown eyes. Back to failed football tryouts and last place tourneys.

They both can't say anything for the moment. His father clears his throat. "They obviously haven't taught you anything in school, boy. Don't you know to come inside when it's bloody cold?" He yanks the bag from Arthur and starts up the steps.

As Arthur follows into the entryway, he sees the Christmas decorations are hung up as he remembers them. Everything matches perfectly. The gold and silver color scheme melts from room to room. Little gold and silver baubles swing merrily on the tree, and beneath it the dog snoozes wearily, having long since given up on getting rid of the horrid Christmas bow in her fur. He wonders when his mum had hired the lady to come in and decorate. They haven't actually decorated since they lived in Whitby. (Homemade ornaments and popcorn strings. And nothing ever matched.)

"You see, Bear's going to take me to the toy shop later this evening," Peter is saying sneakily from his spot in his father's lap.

"Oh well, now, isn't that nice of him?" His uncle laughs richly. His own brown eyes twinkle with bemusement. "It is good to have our Bear back with us, isn't it, Ralph?"

"Certainly." His father answers, taking his tea back on the couch. "Say, Arthur, stand still. Let me have a look at you."

Arthur meets his father's gaze impassively. He's noticed there's a picture of 14-year-old him in his football gear on the fireplace mantle. If he looks close enough, he can imagine he sees the bruise that James gave him, kicking the ball straight at his stomach.

...

 _"Keep up, Arthur! You're bloody slow!"_

 _Arthur pants along, trying to keep pace with his 17 year old brother._

 _James, who will one day go on to play pro, dribbles lazily in front of him, looking bored. "Father's right. You need to tighten up your core." He slows to a stop. "Come here."_

 _Arthur scowls, dragging his feet. "I have homework. The match isn't until next week. Can't I.. can't I rest?"_

 _"Hey, that's on Dad, not me." James holds up his hands defensively. "He told me to practice with you. Personally, I don't think you're cut out for football at all. You're short, but you're not very quick on your feet. How much do you weigh?"_

 _"I don't know." Arthur rolls his eyes. "I don't care either. Look, can we just get this over with? I'll go play keeper for awhile."_

 _James sighs. "No, I want you to practice passes. I'll go a ways out and kick it high. Use anything you can to pass it back. Just don't use your hands."_

 _Arthur grumbles a bit as James jogs down the field. He's been playing football since he was seven. Of course, he's not going to use his hands._

 _"Ready?" James hollers._

 _Arthur nods. But apparently not. James kicks just high enough that he can't hit with his head and just low enough that he can't bump it with his foot. He's not coordinated enough to turn sideways in time for it to hit his hip. He ought to have just caught it, but he's certainly not going to face that embarrassment at the dinner table- James telling Father that wittle Arthur used his hands at practice today._

 _The football slams into his stomach, knocking his favorite after school snack right onto his cleats._

...

Arthur zones back in, blinking. His father is talking about him.

"...a ruddy shame, I tell you, Martin. He's gone awful peaky, looks thinner than a whistle. We send him to America and he doesn't do a thing with it. Comes back with just as empty a head as before." His father laughs.

"Now, Ralph, don't be so cruel to him." His kinder uncle waves it off. "Arthur will find his way like the rest of them. James may play professional football, and Henry does research for Oxford. But we can't all be incredible in the same way, can we? Arthur, you'll impress him yet, greedy bastard that he is. Four sons, why I've only got my one and he's good enough!" His uncle swoops in to kiss Peter before he can pull away.

"Oh, Papa, no!"

"Well, Arthur, you could have at least bulked up like I told you, now couldn't you?" His father squints at him dismally. "I was scrawny like you were, too, so don't think that's stopping you. I worked real hard when I was twenty or so and then I could dead lift 300 pounds."

Arthur sighs. "I have no need to be a weightlifter, father. You're never on Henry about it."

"Well, Henry isn't so small as you are. Goodness sakes, Arthur, you couldn't even lift your own luggage."

Arthur scowls, rubbing at his sore arms. It'd been enough hassle dragging it around all day. "I'm going to my room."

"Oh, Arthur, we gave it to Jewels and the baby, so she would have somewhere to nurse him."

Arthur stares incredulously, feeling his patience begin to fray. "Murtagh has a room. I don't see why you couldn't bloody well use his."

"She wanted a separate room for the baby."

"Well, where am I staying?" Arthur snaps. "I didn't even want to come, father. Why did you make me if you had no room for me?"

The last sentence seems to echo in the high-ceilinged room, so that it takes on more significance than Arthur meant for it to. His father says nothing, only looks on expressionlessly. It's like all he can see, even now, are the homemade piercings and the chipped attitude. Arthur grabs his bag and storms off to steal Henry's room.

Sinking onto Henry's dusty bed, he sprawls staring at the ceiling. Downstairs, he can hear his father's muffled conversation, deep and dull. If his mother had been there, perhaps things would have been less volatile. He hears Peter's suddenly high-pitched voice inquire, "Why can't I go upstairs? Bear and I usually play together."

"Afraid not this year," Arthur mumbles to nobody in particular.

A photo of Henry's gorgeous girlfriend on the bedside table catches his eye. Arthur wrestles with his coat for a moment, producing his mobile. He flips through his limited pictures until he finds it and sighs. Alfred's upside down face smiles back at him, head thrown backwards over the bed. He'd wanted to try that Spiderman kiss.

"You poor idiot..." Arthur mumbles, allowing himself to smile.

He doesn't hate his family. His brothers are, well, his brothers. Peter can be sweet when the mood suits him. His uncle loves him. His aunt hates him. He's his mum's teddy bear. But his father... Arthur doesn't pretend to have any stock in that relationship.

* * *

 **Alright so ending author's note this time. :)**

 **First off, I want to assure everyone that Alfred has not be any means exited the story. Don't be worried for that. Haha, it's still UsUk**

 **Second, Arthur's nickname, Bear. Is literally what his name means. I thought it was cute...**

 **Lastly, it's not super important what everyone's name is. But for reference, Murtagh= Scotland, Henry= Wales, and James= Northern Ireland. Murtagh is married to Jewels and they have a son, Daniel. Arthur's parents are Ralph and Mary. His uncle (Peter's father) is Martin.**

 **Once again not super important as this is a relatively minor part of the story. I throw in a bunch of names to create the craziness and realism of returning back home.**

 **Thanks for your support, doze.**


	11. Chapter 11

**Hi guys,**

 **Thanks for all your reviews and support. These next two chapters are "scenes" from Arthur's time at home and occur over about a two week time period. Alfred makes several cameo appearances via electronics.**

 **Hope you're having a great weekend so far**

 **Much love, doze**

* * *

"Come on!" Alfred's voice cracks through a yawn. "I mean, look at that glorious advent calendar, Arthur. It's Star Wars. That's pretty neat."

Arthur rolls his eyes, chin propped on his hands, sprawled on Henry's bed. The late morning sun tickles across his back and sometimes makes it annoyingly difficult to see the laptop screen.

"Yes, I noticed."

"You haven't even seen Star Wars, have you?" Alfred frowns suspiciously. "God, I'm such an idiot. I should have sent that with you. Then when you got back, we could discuss it."

"What would there be to discuss, Alfred?" Arthur asks, rolling his eyes. "Lifesaver fights?"

"Light sabers, Arthur. Light sabers. God, I can't believe this. I'm dating an infidel." Alfred throws his head back overdramatically.

"Oh calm yourself," Arthur laughs slightly. "I didn't say I wouldn't see it. We can watch it together."

"Yeah," Alfred smiles. "Yeah, we can." He frowns a little bit, scrapping a hand over his face tiredly. "So how are things up in England land?"

"I think one 'land' works well enough." Arthur sighs, shrugging. "It's fine. I suppose. I've been here all of a day, and my father is mad at me for stealing Henry's room. Henry's staying in a hotel, but I don't think he was too devastated about it honestly. He has his girlfriend with him."

"Nah, I don't think he would be, then," Alfred chuckles. "Plus, a baby totally stole your room, Arthur. I'm upset! I wanted to see it."

"I can show it to you, if you want. Most everyone is out shopping right now. Only my father is around and he's in the study." Arthur says it a bit desperately. He knows it's selfish, but he doesn't want Alfred to leave just yet. Even if they've been talking for close to three hours.

Alfred yawns again. "Sure, sure. I'd like to see it."

Arthur slips to his feet, balancing the laptop on his arm. "Hold on. It's down the hall."

He glances about warily, not wanting his father to somehow sneak up on him. His mum had been ridiculously upset at his outright refusal to go out. He is vaguely certain that he offended her by not eating breakfast with the rest of them. Even Henry came over for that. Peter's last whining entreaty to take him to the toy shop only made Arthur snap at him. At that point, he'd been talking to Alfred and did not want to be disturbed.

"Here it is." He pushes the door open, frowning at the monumental crib that has taken over his small bedroom. "And there's the crib."

"Obviously yours." Alfred snickers. "Jeez, Arthur, I knew you were a baby, but this is a bit intense."

"Shut up, would you?" Arthur rolls his eyes. Alfred's humor is getting a bit stupid now that he's half awake. "There's my bed."

"Fascinating."

"If you're going to sound like that, I don't know why I bother."

"Okay, hold on." Alfred clears his throat and says in a properly awed tone. " _Fascinating_."

Arthur chuckles a bit. "That's better. So these are some of my old books and there's my dresser. That's my desk." He tips the laptop around, showing Alfred the set up. "But now, here's the really interesting part."

He balances the laptop carefully on his forearm as he pushes open his closet door. It's a walk in closet and as a teenager he'd had it filled to the brim with all the posters of his favorite rock bands. His parents have never noticed yet.

"Wow, Arthur, that's bloody. Should I be worried?" Alfred remarks. "I think that's the mark of Satan."

Arthur snorts. "Who hasn't performed a few séances in their lifetime?"

"Uh, me?" Alfred puts in. "I'm a good, Christian boy, Artie. Not gunna touch them devil's spawn." Alfred giggles tiredly at his own godawful Southern accent.

"Well, I know what we're doing when I get back." Arthur says calmly, kicking his closet door shut behind him.

"What?" Alfred asks.

"We'll watch a Stars Wars marathon and then I'm taking you to fetch some eye of newt and a gaggle of virgins for sacrificing."

"Virgins? We're not going to have a massive orgy first, are we?" Alfred snickers. "Now, that would be a hell of a first time. You have to admit."

"I'm not really into polyamorous relationships." Arthur says seriously, though he's trying not to smile.

"But they're virgins, Arthur! The things we could teach them!"

"Because we're so wise and experienced?"

"Yes, I'm the sage sex god and you're my cute sidekick with all the fun BDSM toys."

"Well, I might have a vibrator or two," Arthur jokes, causing Alfred to snicker boyishly. "Did you seriously just try and convince me to have an orgy?"

"Successfully, I might add," Alfred says through giggles.

"Honestly, I just want to see you with your pants off at the moment," Arthur continues cheekily. "Sage sex god, my ars-"

"Arthur?"

Arthur jumps, nearly dropping the laptop. His face blossoms a brilliant red, when he sees his father's stern scowl in the doorway of his old bedroom. Shit, how long had he been standing there? "Father, I-"

"Who are you talking to?"

Arthur snaps the computer closed, heart thudding. "Just a friend in America."

His father's impressive brows furrow. "I thought you were talking to yourself up here, boy."

Arthur says nothing, shifting his weight. "Sorry to have disturbed you."

His father grunts. "Your mum won't be happy to hear you missed time with the family to play web games."

Arthur frowns. He almost feels like pointing out that his father isn't spending time with the family either, but knows he'll only get pain for his trouble. "It wasn't web games. It was Skype. I was chatting with someone." I'm also older than seven. He adds in his mind.

His father doesn't look very impressed. The next thing he says is a bit much though, even for him. "Arthur, I don't pretend to have control over your actions anymore, but I would ask that you keep deplorable behavior out of this house when there are young children around."

Arthur frowns. "I'm not doing anything. I'm just chatting. Dad, he's my..."

"Your?"

"My boyfriend," Arthur murmurs, finding himself reluctant to say the words if only because they're so special to him. He's not sure when exactly he'd accepted the fact. Yet, whenever he sees a picture of Alfred and those words pop into his mind, he feels like he's sharing a secret joke with someone special.

His father says nothing for a long moment. "You haven't mentioned this to your mother."

"No, it was recently that I met him."

"I don't want you talking about this."

"Why's that?" Arthur challenges, but it comes out in more of a whisper.

His father's deep brown eyes watch him, chillingly blank. "We've already had this discussion."

As his father walks away, Arthur glares at the odd bit of carpet. He trudges back to Henry's room and sprawls on the bed. Curse holiday break, really. He feels like he's back to being grounded on weekends.

0 0 0

"Whatcha readin?" Peter pushes down Arthur's book from his face, smiling sweetly.

"Nothing you would like. Bugger off." Arthur swats him away and starts to return to the second installment in Alfred's Sci-fi series. He catches his mum's disapproving eye though and heaves a longsuffering sigh. He'd decided to sit in the family room that evening to please her. But one little concession is never enough.

"Would you like to see?" He asks gruffly, trying to make it clear to Peter that he's not interested in spending time together right now.

"Yeah, is it boring like a history book?"

Peter shoves the book away, scraping his dirty trainers along Arthur's chinos on his way up to Arthur's lap.

"Yes," Arthur sighs. "Terribly boring. It's a space adventure."

"Woah," Peter's eyes grow huge. "Read it to me, Bear."

"Arthur." Arthur corrects, but hopelessly. Peter has called him that ever since he can remember. He flips back a few pages and begins reading at one of the particularly good battle scenes. Guns and lasers blazing in space, Arthur has Peter's full attention. He paints the dark void with his voice and the explosions with each pause of punctuation. Peter leans back into him, pressing his ear to Arthur's chest, so that the full silky effect of his voice can be appreciated.

When the smoke dissipates and silence is restored after the deadly battle, Peter quietly interrupts him. "Bear, are you alright?"

Arthur frowns. "I'm fine, Peter. Why?"

"You seem sad." Peter slips his fingers over Arthur's. "You didn't come out with us at all today."

"I was relaxing." Arthur murmurs. "Shopping is not relaxing for me."

"Oh." Peter doesn't say anything for a very long time until dinner is called. Peter wiggles to his feet and turns to Arthur, who also stands, stretching. "You gunna eat with us, Bear?"

"No, I'm not hungry." Arthur ruffs Peter's hair as he takes his leave for the stairs.

"Again?" Peter asks in shock. "But who's gunna eat your rolls? Can I have 'em?"

"You can have them, you little pig." Arthur snorts. "I'll be back down later. Go on. Your mum is calling you."

Peter hesitates, before sighing and skipping off towards the glowing warmth of the dining room.

Once Peter disappears around the corner, Arthur decides he had better hurry before someone else sees him. If he manages to get upstairs, he knows everyone will be too enamored by the meal to get off their butts and call him. It's becoming an accepted anomaly that Arthur doesn't eat dinner. After three nights of it, his mum doesn't bother to pester him (much) anymore. Yet, he's not willing to tempt the dragon enough by showing his face near the table in the heat of the moment.

When Arthur gets to his room, he debates calling Alfred. He hasn't talked to him yet today, but he talked to him twice yesterday. Is it too clingy to call now?

Arthur frowns, counting on his fingers. It's five o'clock here. Alfred is eight hours behind him in Washington. It would be… nine a.m.? Would Alfred be awake?

He pulls his laptop onto Henry's bed, biting his lip. Finally, in the message column, he types, "Are you on?"

Alfred's little green symbol isn't showing up, so it's probably too much to hope for.

"yeah… you woke me…. :P loser."

Arthur feels himself relax. He hadn't even realized he was tense. "Can you video chat?"

"i CAN." Alfred sends back, making Arthur snort. Cheeky bugger, using his grammar digs against him.

"Will you, then?"

"if you want… i look like crap right now i'm still in bed. haha."

"I don't care."

Arthur waits a minute in silence before the familiar ring greets him. His computer lights up telling him that Alfred is calling. He can't help but smile genuinely.

A sudden thud door on the door erases it just as quickly. Arthur jumps and nearly drops his laptop on the floor. Scowling angrily, he rejects Alfred's call, typing "srry, later."

"What?" He snaps. "I'm busy." His chest burns painfully and he rubs at it irritably.

Surprisingly, it's James that swings his head around the door. "Chill, Arthur," he says seriously, tossing his red fringe out of his eyes with a quick flick. "I'm just coming up here to get away."

"Yeah, well, I'm busy. What do you want?"

James just shakes his head. "Peter found some of Henry's porn in his travel bag. Dad is losing it. Thought you might want to know."

"How does that affect me in any way?" Arthur grumbles sourly, wishing he would just go away.

"Because if you don't get on the right side fast, you're really gunna feel it." James takes a bite of his roll, with wide brown eyes. The freckles spattered across his skin seem almost iridescent from the light in the hallway. Arthur realizes he'd been sitting in the dark. He reaches to flip on his light, causing James to blink owlishly.

"I offered to take the dog to the groomer and kick a few goals with him, later," James continues. "You'd be smart to do something to get on his good side too. How he is and all… Arthur, you want my roll?"

He holds out his half-eaten piece of bread, causing Arthur to crinkle his nose in exasperation. "Why would I want that? You've been slobbering all over it since you came up here."

"Right." James cocks his head. "You just look kinda stretched thin. Is school really hard over there? I mean, I wouldn't know anyway. I dropped out." He shrugs.

Arthur blinks, surprised that James is asking. "Everything's been fine. I lost some weight. Who knows…" He trails. "Maybe I could keep up with you now?"

James laughs, throwing the rest of the roll in his mouth. "In your dreams, teddy bear." He grins. "See you later. Just remember what I said. You know how dad is."

0 0 0

Arthur opens his eyes groggily, coming to with the sound of a tremendous thudding. He shoves away the pillow, groaning. Last night's Sci-fi book topples off his bed, splaying on its pages. He finds he doesn't have the motivation to be overly concerned. Even if there might be specs of his drool on the cover.

He raises himself, feeling utterly exhausted, and shuffles to open the door.

"You're still asleep?" Henry's unwelcome face greets him. He pushes past impatiently. "It's almost eleven. I need something in here. Move your ass."

Arthur makes an incoherent grunting noise, scrubbing his hands over his face. He'd had the strangest dream about flying saucers that were actually teacup saucers. Alfred had wanted him to come on an "adventure". He hadn't understood the way Alfred had said it, like he meant something else by it. Arthur refused over text because he was afraid Alfred wouldn't like his blue hair. Wait. Fuck. Alfred had wanted to have sex. Why had he said no? That could have been a really great drea-

"Also," Henry's brilliant green eyes meet his brother's. "Mum wants you downstairs."

Arthur groans, regaining control of his wild thoughts. "Why?"

"Something about being antisocial. I wouldn't push it. Dad's on edge. The second she starts whining..."

"Well, that's your fault, "Arthur points out grumpily. Feeling that his filter is in need of repair, he blurts. "Your girlfriend doesn't care that you read porn?"

Henry gives him a dubious look. "What do you do up here all by yourself? You have no room to talk."

"I'm not reading porn, if that's what you're insinuating." Arthur shoves past him. "I'm wasting my life away on the internet, obviously.

When he gets downstairs, the aftermath of breakfast is scattered across the table. Peter, fully dressed, bounces around Arthur's aunt, singing about the toy shop. Arthur looks about and realizes quickly that his mother is nowhere in sight. He means to duck out, but his unpleasant aunt opens her mouth before he can escape.

"Ah, there you are!" She says. "And not even dressed. Hurry up and eat or we'll leave without you. James, did you save your brother anything?"

James looks up from his plate, the only one still at the table. Arthur would have smirked at James' traditional rebuttal if he wasn't feeling so exhausted.

"I'm a football player. I'm the most active of any of us," James says with his cheeks full. "Don't blame me for eating the most. Blame my fame."

His aunt starts to retort, but then his mum comes sweeping into the room. "Oh, Arthur, good! Sit down and get something." As if to make sure he doesn't get away, she takes him by the shoulders and steers him to a chair.

"Mum-" He begins, but she's already shoveling food onto a plate for him, uncaring that the juice from the fruit is mixing with the hash. Arthur swallows heavily. Doesn't she think that's disgusting?

"Now, Arthur," She goes on pouring him orange juice heedless of his protests. "You're beginning to look terribly scruffy. Once you've eaten a good meal, I want you to head right upstairs and shave. No pajama lounging today. I fancy you're growing lazy. You're getting a haircut when we go out today, you hear? And none of this 'I'm not hungry' nonsense," she cuts him off before he begins. "You're terribly scrawny, and it's obvious you haven't been getting enough. We send you to America and you don't gain any weight. Honestly, it's a miracle."

Seeing as he's getting nowhere, Arthur tries to mollify her by poking at his pineapple. He grumbles under his breath. He looks well enough, and if he doesn't want to shave, he won't. They're not going anywhere important. He'll just wait till she leaves, then give his plate to James.

But she keeps hovering and hovering until finally, he knows he'll have to put something in his mouth or he'll never be allowed up from the table. Arthur spears a cube of pineapple, carefully scraping off the bits of other food that cling to it.

He delicately nips it off with his teeth. When the pineapple hits his tongue, he knows instantly that he won't be able to stomach it. Arthur feels his heart beat faster. He hasn't been forced to eat by anybody in several weeks. Sure, Alfred has imparted some pressuring words now and then, but that was nothing compared to Professor Germaine's unfeeling stare. Arthur wonders if he'll even be able to clear the plate to his mother's expectations. He has the nagging feeling that as soon as empty spots start to appear, she'll fill them with more food.

When he eats (if he feels like it), he does it by himself on his own terms. Right now, when his heart feels like it's pumping molasses and his hands are beginning to shake and any second now his throat will close up so that if he attempts to swallow he'll vomit, no, no, he doesn't think he can do it. No.

"Mum, I'm not hungry." He says firmly, shoving the plate away and stumbling to his feet.

"Arthur," she begins crossly, but he brushes right past her. "Arthur! Arthur, where are you going?"

Arthur's breathing is shallow and he doesn't understand why. It's his left side again. His arm hurts to move, and his heart beats like it's stunted. Blindly, almost like an animal, he searches for relief. His feet lead him to the hall closet, until he's found his coat. Digging into the pocket, he produces the bottle of Xanax. Without really paying attention to his mum, he vaults back into the kitchen for a glass of water.

Four tablets later, Arthur gasps, laying his head against the counter on his knees by the sink. He becomes aware that James, his mum, his aunt, and Peter are all staring. Yet, he can't find it in himself to give a damn. Soon, the medicine takes its effect and that's all he cares about. Arthur gets to his feet heavily.

No one says anything. They seem almost afraid to. He feels oddly vindicated as he walks to the pantry. In full view of his mum, he makes a show of taking two granola bars from the shelf. As he walks away, he rips one open and begins eating, determined that she won't bother him about this anymore. A couple hours later, he can get rid of it anyhow.

In his room, he throws on a pair of maroon chinos and, after some rampant digging in his suitcase, Alfred's oversized gray sweatshirt. He had never gotten around to giving it back after the one night spent on the bathroom floor. The hoodie is so baggy that perhaps his mum will bug him less throughout the day. He touches the print across the front. (It's from a videogame tournament. It has Alfred's last name on the back.) After a second, Arthur pulls up the collar so that it covers his nose and he can smell the faint scent of Alfred. Not just his cologne, but his laundry detergent and even his once-in-a-blue-moon hair gel. Arthur's shoulders relax and he thinks that he'll have to Skype Alfred later tonight.

Speaking of Alfred, he gave Arthur some money. Spitting out the second bite of the granola bar into the bin, Arthur starts to wrestle with his bag. He finds the wad of American dollars and begins to do some tabulations. Just as quickly, he stops, though. He tosses the money back in his bag and determines that whatever he sees that reminds him of Alfred, he'll buy. Arthur doesn't really care about cost. It's Alfred. Alfred doesn't have to pay him for this. It might make this shopping excursion a little more bearable anyway.

Just as he's about to leave his room, he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. His mother is right. He does look rather scruffy. His hair is getting long, falling over his unruly eyebrows and even beginning to curl provocatively at the ends. In the back, it's long enough to curl at the collar. Arthur runs his fingers through it tiredly. His face is halfway between a beard and stubble. There are bags under his eyes, despite the near constant sleep he's getting. (These past few days all he's basically done is sleep.) Arthur decides he'll have to clean himself up before going back to Seattle. At the moment, he can't find any motivation to do so, not when he feels like he just might drop from fatigue.

0 0 0

"Jeez, Arthur, I knew you were a fan of our country, but don't you think you're going overboard?" James kids good- naturedly as they walk down Regent Street. Peter is sitting on James' shoulders bouncing excitably up and down.

"It's not for me," Arthur says, trying to maintain control of his various bags of British themed merchandise in the crowd. So many people are out shopping that it's practically nauseating. His arms hurt terribly, but he can't help but be pleased with his haul so far. This exercise will do him good in the long run anyway. Work off the granola bar.

"For who then?" James asks. "You were practically cackling when you bought those Union Jack boxers."

"No one," Arthur starts to say, but stops. You know, to hell with his father's rules. "My boyfriend." He says unashamedly.

"Boyfriend?" James' thick eyebrows disappear in his fringe. "You have a boyfriend?"

"Yes, is that really so astonishing?"

"No, I mean, I guess not. I knew you were gay, but. Jeez, you like him?" James laughs, while Peter watches on with furrowed brow.

"No, I just put up with him," Arthur rolls his eyes. "I find it's better to date people that you'll never really care about."

"Seriously?"

"No, not seriously, idiot." Arthur snorts. "Of course, I... like him."

"And he's American? Why didn't you bring him?"

Arthur blinks, floored by James' utter idiocy. Yet, his older brother watches on with innocent brown eyes. Perhaps, he hasn't had _that_ discussion with their father before.

Before Arthur gets the chance to answer, Peter chimes in. "So you like _like_ a boy?"

Arthur meets James' gaze incredulously, but James just shrugs, looking curious for his response.

"Yes, Peter." Arthur finally says.

"So you..." Peter fights to comprehend for a minute. "You kiss him?"

James snorts with laughter, prompting Arthur to whack him with his hoard of bags. "Occasionally, yes."

"Would you marry him?" Peter asks.

"Yeah, Arthur, would you?" James is enjoying Arthur's red face more than he should be.

"Just because you love someone doesn't mean you're going to marry them," Arthur retorts grumpily. But his heart nearly stops after he says it. James and Peter go on joking. But Arthur slows, realizing it's the first time he's said it. And Alfred wasn't even there to hear. _I love him_.

He follows on behind them, lost in his thoughts. Okay, perhaps it was a rather convoluted way, but in Arthur-speak he feels like he just unwittingly confessed something he should have known about himself. This is a good thing, right? Perhaps dangerous, but overall good? There isn't a reason not to love Alfred. Big, warm, goofy Alfred. That he loves. That Arthur loves. That Arthur Kirkland loves. He feels his heart twinge strangely and thinks he could do with another dose of Xanax.

It isn't long before the shopping has utterly drained him and he insists on returning. Using the dregs of James' Coke, he washes down a couple more pills. James watches him warily, but doesn't say anything, holding Peter's hand as they board the tube in the Christmas shopping rush. His mum and aunt are still out, along with Murtagh and his wife.

For some reason, Arthur's arm starts to shake and he ends up dumping one of his bags all down the pavement of their street. James helps him pick it up and then with an odd look in his eye, insists on relieving Arthur of the majority of his packages. Even if he's a little embarrassed, he's ultimately grateful and doesn't mind letting his older brother be the older brother for once.

0 0 0

Holed away in his room, Arthur stumbles to sit on the floor with his bags. He leans his head back against the wall, scowling. He's so out of shape. Great gulping breaths shake his lungs. He's sweating, but shivering with cold. His middle feels tumultuous from all the moving around, like his organs are thrown everywhere. Groaning, he stretches out his burning legs.

He doesn't feel like it, but he should run tomorrow. His mother is right. He's getting lazy. Usually the forced meals with somebody, get his mind on the right track. They cause him to remember to work out. Yet, he's forgotten now. Been practically a vegetable these past few days. All he's done is lie in bed.

The extreme sense of guilt harrows at Arthur's heart, causing it to burn. At least, he hasn't eaten anything- really since he got here. Coupled with those calories, he'd be less than a vegetable; he'd be a slug. And certainly fatter by now.

This small success doesn't make him feel any better, though. Everything feels entirely out of his control. He can't control his mother's whims and he can't control his father's temper. He doesn't have control over his schedule in this place or the times that he'll be able to talk to Alfred. His brothers move about with a sporadic motion that defies him. Nothing seems cut and dry.

Arthur resigns himself to sitting where he is for awhile. Yet as the sun begins to sink, tiny hints of fear slip through his careful emotion management. Feeling jumpy he extends his legs and begins to shimmy out of his chinos. It's not as difficult a task as it might have been. They're supposed to be tight like skinny jeans, but they slip off easily.

He stops when they're at his knees and he's looking at his thighs. And though it bothers him, (it always bothers him), he carefully lays his hand on the soft inner skin, rubbing at the tender hair. Not good enough, he thinks, pinching with his fingers. Not good enough. This is why he does this. He pokes at the fatty skin, finding an odd comfort on only focusing on the next thing to be improved. He'll do the right thing, the difficult thing. And everything will be okay.

"I'm okay," Arthur mumbles, finding that he says it as much to himself as he does to other people.

Yet, he doesn't feel okay and suddenly he can't stand it. He feels alone. Scrambling to his hands and knees, he half-drags, half-crawls to find his laptop. He curls up with it in the corner and turns it on desperately. He doesn't know what time it is and beats an erratic rhythm on the floor with his palm.

Finally, he's able to open Skype and by then his breathing is shallow. He can feel himself hyperventilating. "Alfred," he types pleadingly. "Alfred are you there i needto talk to youalfred pleaseanswerme."

His sentences string together, but he keeps typing frantically, sending message after message.

He freezes when he gets a reply back.

"Yeah, Arthur, I'm here. What's the matter? Are you alright?"

"please call." Arthur sends, panting heavily.

He answers the Skype call before it rings twice. And before he has a chance to consider his actions. He's a horrible mess. Did he really want Alfred to see him like this? What is he thinking?

Yet, Alfred has already answered. His baby blue eyes are filled with concern."What's wrong, Arthur?" he says immediately and he almost looks afraid.

"N-nothing," Arthur chokes out. "I... I just... I'm..." He can't think of any excuse. Why had he even called?

"Hey," Alfred says hesitantly, softly, soothingly. "You're okay, alright? Breathe. Is... someone making you do something you don't want to do?"

Arthur looks away, trying to get a hold of his panting. Alfred has asked that before. He had been right before too.

"That's... that's rough, okay." Alfred continues worriedly, yet his voice still manages to be gentle, soothing. Arthur suddenly wishes Alfred were there to hug him. He hadn't realized how much he misses Alfred's touch. He feels several tears start to gather in his eyes and he can't look at the screen full on. It's been more than a week and he can't stand it.

"Hey, hey, hey," Alfred murmurs. "I'm here for ya, alright? I know I'm a damned thousand or so miles away, but I'll be here for ya when you get back. Don't forget it, okay? I love you."

I love you, too. Arthur thinks, but can't say. He just closes his eyes and Alfred keeps talking.

"You're doing okay... alright? You're perfect and I love you. Don't worry about changing anything... Let me see your eyes. Please, Artie. Let me see those pretty eyes."

Arthur blushes. If he were feeling up to it, he would snap at Alfred for being ridiculous. But now he just looks hopelessly at the camera and Alfred gives him a cowboy whistle.

"There they are," He murmurs affectionately. "No one's got eyes like yours. Gorgeous, prettier than any forest, my boy's green eyes are."

Arthur swallows heavily and realizes that he can breathe easier now. Alfred has distracted him.

"Hey," Alfred sees that he's got a little more control over himself, yet his tone doesn't lose its gentleness. "Listen to me for a moment, alright? I want you to take it easy. You look like you need some rest." As Alfred says it, he looks bothered. But only for a second. The expression is quickly gone. Hidden. "Can you do that for me? I know it's Christmas time and you're out there caroling your heart out, but even the joyful soul needs to give up joyful noise after awhile."

Arthur snorts, reaching to rub his face tiredly. "What does that even mean?"

Alfred grins affectionately. "Means you need sleep, blockhead. Listen to me, kay? I know you don't want to hear this, but you still suck balls at taking care of yourself. Get one of those useless brothers of yours to make you a cup of tea and eat a couple biscuits and some fruit. And then get some sleep. I'll personally come down there and kick your father's ass myself if he keeps interrupting."

Arthur swallows, thinking that maybe he could do all that if Alfred were around. Right now, he feels incapable of even getting off the floor.

Alfred watches him critically for a moment, before saying in a low voice, "What got you all worked up, buddy?"

His use of the nickname 'buddy' makes Arthur feel like he's in some kind of bad Hollywood gunslinger production. He should hate it, but it's the way Alfred says it. Arthur's never heard him use it before. It's fond, special. He decides not to say anything.

He gives a forlorn kind of shrug, unsure why he got so worked up, either.

Alfred frowns slightly, but nods. "If you need to tell me anything, just Skype. I'll be there to listen, okay. Look. Hey, look at me for a sec, kay?" He meets Alfred's earnest eyes. "You're not bothering me at all. I don't mind talking whenever you need to."

Arthur nods quietly, still feeling like an incredible nuisance.

Alfred grins tiredly. "Only a couple more days and it's Christmas. Hopefully… Well… I don't want to ruin it." His smile turns a bit devilish.

"Ruin what?" Arthur murmurs.

Alfred shrugs. "You'll see. I had to send it right when you left. Fucking expensive shipping charge, but it'll be worth it if you get it in time."

Arthur's brow furrows. He's too exhausted to think things through. "What?"

"Your Christmas present." Alfred beams. "I think you'll really like it."

"Oh, Alfred… don't… don't do stuff like that for me." He shifts uncomfortably, wondering what he did to deserve this kind of treatment. He searches for a way to make Alfred understand that. "I… I stole your hoodie."

"I can see that," Alfred smirks teasingly. "You can keep it, if you want it."

"No, Alfred, I… I don't…" Arthur blushes. He hadn't expected Alfred to offer it to him. "I don't d-deserve…"

"Don't be silly, Arthur," Alfred interrupts seriously. "You're my boyfriend and I love you. Of course, I'm going to get you stuff."

"But… I…"

"You would do it for me," Alfred says as if that ends the conversation. "Look, don't stress. You'll really like it and it wasn't too much trouble. Try and do what I told you, alright?" He looks over his shoulder and frowns. His voice drifts back muffled. "Yeah, I'm coming, okay!"

"Alfred?" Arthur feels his heart pick up.

Alfred turns a sorry smile back to him. "Hey, I really gotta go, buddy. I'm sorry. It's lunch hour over here, and I'm working. I've got to get back in the kitchen. I love you. Take care of yourself okay."

"O-okay." Arthur stumbles, but as Alfred waves and signs off, he begins to tense.

He knows why he called now. Alfred doesn't make him do anything. Alfred is predictable. All Alfred will do is murmur nice phrases that take his mind off his pain. Alfred will tease and kiss and touch. Alfred is his guilty pleasure when he can't stand severity anymore. He still feels isolated, but he knows what Alfred will say. And if nothing else, he likes to hear the nice words. He's in control for that moment.

Arthur breathes out, dropping his head back against the wall. He misses Alfred. Alfred wouldn't force him to shop or be nice or look presentable. They could lay in bed like they did on lazy days, where Alfred jacks the heater up so that he's never cold. Arthur glances distantly at his purplish fingers. Sometimes he forgets he's cold.

"Arthur? Hey, Arthur? You in here?" James sticks his head suddenly round the door. "Hey… why are you sitting on the floor?"

"I'm meditating," Arthur says sourly, reaching to use the doorknob to heft himself up.

"Yeah, well," James almost looks sorry. "Dad wants you down at the dinner table. Now."

Arthur closes his eyes, digging his fingernails into the palms of his hands. So it's going to come to this.


	12. Chapter 12

**Look at me keeping a regular Friday update schedule. Woot.**

 **Apologies are in order because this chapter is FUCKING long. But things get moving towards the end, I promise, haha.**

 **All your reviews and follows and faves are much appreciated. Hope you all are having a great spring!**

 **Much love, doze**

* * *

Arthur takes a moment before following James into the dining room. His heart beats wildly and his hands shake, but he forces himself to focus on the minutiae that always keep him grounded. Soon, he will join his family at the dinner table. Judging by the smell, they're having pasta. he can logically conclude that there will be breadsticks and salad, that his plate will already be loaded for him.

He doesn't want to eat. Won't eat. Can't.

Arthur exhales, clenching and releasing his fists. He needs some sort of end goal. he can't fake sick without prompting questions that he doesn't have answers to. Realistically, he only has to eat and then get rid of it. There's no keeping involved, no consequences.

No keeping consequences.

Yet.

The horrible feelings associated with empty plates are inevitable and perhaps that's the secret, he thinks dryly. People don't do things that make them feel bad. But no matter. He'll suffer it through like he always does. Always will.

Arthur draws himself up straighter, contains his panic into one little ball. It can't stay that way forever. He knows it intuitively. If it keeps too long, it'll start to rot until there's a hole, rather like Alfred's black holes in the Sci-Fi novels. The tricky thing with holes, they're incapable of being fixed. They can be plugged, hidden, even forgotten, but not filled- at least not like they used to be when he felt confident enough and important enough to share his secrets.

"Bear!" Peter howls excitedly upon seeing him.

He manages a weary grin as everyone looks at him, even the little baby. His eyes trail over their faces until he finds his father's. By then his resolve has hardened.

The scene is a bit blurry, heightened with his adrenaline and panic. He hears himself offer some kind of apology, thank his mother for the meal. James kicks a chair out for him and he picks up his fork.

The conversations resume. No one looks at Arthur. He spears a bit of cheese-ridden pasta, unable to help wrinkling his nose at it. His Adam's apple bobs nervously as he mentally chastises himself.

"Don't like Ricotta?" Peter asks suddenly, startling him.

"It's fine, Peter. " He murmurs, forcing it into his mouth and trying to regain his mantra. He is an excellent liar when he really needs to be.

Peter shrugs, picking at his green beans ruefully. "Okay. I just thought you didn't like any food."

Arthur scowls. "What makes you say that?" He forces down another bite.

Peter blinks owlishly. "You never come down to eat. Mum says you get something, but I know you don't. You don't like it."

"So?"

Peter quails a tiny bit at the malice his cousin is able to put into such a small word. "Nothing," he mumbles and notices that Arthur eats everything on his plate.

0 0 0

After dinner, it's not at all a pleasant experience, waiting for everyone to finish their socializing in the family room. He feels uncomfortable and sick, holding down what disgusts him. He feels disgusting.

In the past, Arthur would have to find ways to force food up. His head wouldn't want it, but his stomach certainly did. When he wasn't so determined (sneaking bites when he shouldn't have and sometimes giving into the temptation of a full meal in the dining hall), there were diuretics and diet pills. The former had horrible effects. The latter, though it took away his hunger, always felt like cheating.

Ultimately, the best way was to not touch anything that could go in his mouth. And it wasn't hard. When he was hungry, he would do something to get his mind off of it. Swap a bad habit for a good one. He would go for runs or devote more time to schoolwork. His productivity level was astounding when he set his mind to it... (and when he could happily nix the daily distractions of morning, noon, and evening.)

Problems are different these days. He hasn't felt hungry in awhile. When people make him eat, he more often than not searches out the toilet. He can eat on his own terms when he wants to. Since he's never hungry, there isn't really any urgency. Even the careful ritual- a small cup of miso soup from the place downtown and a mug of Chamomile tea at exactly seven-thirty sitting at that table in the corner- is something he no longer adheres to. In the past, it had been his solace at the end of a long day. Now, even the faint seaweed smell makes him queasy.

Fingers, as they used to be, are no longer necessary to achieve his... liberation. They were his emergency recourse when he had been bad, when he cheated and felt guilty. It always stopped the tears. But he dislikes it inherently. It makes him feel gross, worse. It's a last resort, even now. He knows tonight that fingers won't be necessary. It'll come without effort.

The weight rests heavily in his belly, noticeable (at least to him) through his thin sweater. He lounges in the living room with his family, secretly counting down the minutes until they all go to bed. His head dangles back against the armchair as he pretends to laugh at some joke. It's with a grimace that he accepts Peter into his lap. It's almost humorous imagining the boy's reaction if something should make a reappearance from dinner.

Arthur swallows heavily. Reminding himself. He is an excellent liar when he needs to be.

0 0 0

"Goodnight Arthur," James stops him sleepily on his way to his room.

"Goodnight James." Arthur murmurs, shifting uncomfortably.

"Hey," James stops him again before he can escape. "It's good to see you at dinner. Mum and Dad had... well." He frowns, scratching the back of his neck and yawning. "I don't know. They were worried."

Arthur rolls his eyes. "They shouldn't be. I'm simply as antisocial as I was before. I haven't time for dinner; studies and all. I forget."

"But you'll come now?" James leans in his doorway with raised eyebrows. Across the hallway, Jewels bounces Daniel to sleep in Arthur's room.

"Of course," Arthur smiles tiredly.

0 0 0

When he finishes, he remembers to turn the shower off.

0 0 0

"James! I told you to put on a tie! This is a formal Christmas party. Do you want to embarrass your father?"

James groans, throwing his head back. Murtagh checks his watch by the door, peering out into the dreary wet night. They're about to be running late. Even little Daniel is outfitted in a small vest and tie. Jewels is ravishing in an evening gown. James has the gall to show up in a football jersey and jeans. Arthur would find it amusing if not for the fact that

he's about to receive equal wrath. He begins to carefully sidle back towards the staircase. Chances are they'll forget about him (like they always do at the supermarket) and he can have his way.

"Mum," James continues whining. "It's a company party. Why am I going? Why are any of us going? For one, Arthur and I have literally no interest in the party whatsoever. Henry just likes dressing up like a dweeb and Murtagh actually works with dad. So I don't see why-"

"You're his son, James," She interrupts hotly. "You'll be at the party. Now go change. And where is Arthur?"

They all glance towards the staircase of which he's made it about halfway up.

"Shit." He grumbles and James starts to laugh.

"You're getting onto me. Look what he's wearing! He's wearing a hoodie and sweatpants!" James seems to find this infinitely hilarious. And it is an anomaly. Arthur always dresses well.

His mother frowns darkly. Being sloppy is apparently the worst offense he can commit right now. She sends him scampering up the stairs with a few choice words that leave even his eldest brothers cowering. James continues to laugh as he changes across the hall.

Arthur reluctantly slips out of Alfred's hoodie, touching the videogame print gently. He hadn't wanted to go to the party in the first place. His heart feels like it's all over the place, and he doesn't feel safe without the trusty bottle of Xanax nearby. He thought that wearing Alfred's hoodie would at least give him some form of comfort in a loud, noisy place full of expectations. Of course, he probably should have known this would happen. He changes into black dress slacks and a deep green button up with a silky black tie.

Partially to spite her, he pulls the hoodie on over it, flipping his hopelessly messy hair out of his eyes. Ignoring her withering look, he follows along behind the well dressed train to the car. James has cleaned up nice and is no longer laughing. He elbows Arthur in the side and produces a bottle of hair gel.

"Planned on fixing mine in the toilet when we get there. You want some?"

"You saying I need some?"

"Eh, yeah." James grins. "I thought you cared about this stuff. Looking professional and whatever?"

Arthur swallows, feeling his face darken. "Not as much as I care about other things."

James' eyes flick curiously over the careful way his brother smooths out his hoodie pocket.

0 0 0

The hoodie lies abandoned on the floor along with his trousers and shirt. He shivers in his boxers in front of the mirror.

His fingers are like little needles as he skims them across his body. Poking and probing. Discovering... Disappointing.

His scowl slowly melts. The expression contorts, changes. The slant of his brows is less harsh, but more meaningful. His eyes feel wet, but he doesn't really notice as he scratches angrily at his ribs. Why does he have to be this way?

The faint pang of hunger sends the tears over and he sniffles miserably.

It's never good enough. Everybody sees him. Everybody knows. He's never good enough.

0 0 0

"Anything you want." Arthur smiles tiredly, waving at the open shop. Peter's eyes grow huge. Even the parents that spoil him so much have never said those magic words.

He grasps Arthur's hand excitably, swinging up and down. The toy shop is all decked out for Christmas. It's crammed and crowded with irritable customers and even more irritable employees. It's a horrible place to be this time of year. But with Peter's breathless grin growing at every display, Arthur remembers his own ridiculous love affair with stuffed toys and can't help but think it's worth it.

"Stop it, idiot. You're going to tug me over." Arthur growls, finally jerking his arm back from Peter when his shoulder makes an odd popping noise. "Go on. Run off. Whatever you want. I haven't got all day."

Peter beams. "Thank you, thank you, thank you."

"Just stay in sight," Arthur shouts after him as he scurries off towards the electronics aisle. This might be a very expensive venture yet. He shoves his hands into his trouser pockets and keeps his head down most of the way. People can't seem to walk on the right side of the aisle and bump into him with irritating accuracy. There are little children to trip over and displays to dodge. Overweight mongers who take their damned time knocking through toys and other people like they're all bloody invisible.

A boy too old, Arthur thinks, to be running about the shop is the final straw. He hits Arthur with full blown force and knocks him into a display of a giant snowman. His eyes grow somewhat wide and not seeming to know what to do he makes a run for it down another aisle.

"Oh dear, sir, are you alright?" A brave soul ventures through the tedium of Christmas shopping to come near him.

Arthur scowls, shaking his head roughly. A flurry of fake snowflakes flutter down into his lap. His vision spins painfully and his back aches. He doesn't attempt to stand when he knows he will just fall over again. There's a clutter of dolls in his arms and action figure boxes scrape the sides of his cheeks through his faint beard. God, where did Peter go? He needs to get out of here.

"Here," The woman offers her hand to him.

He reaches to accept it, but his vision blanks. Panicking, he moves to get on all fours, bumping into various legs and parcels. He hears people crying out in confusion. Finally, he grasps something solid and yanks himself to his feet. He can't see. Yet he can hear several people.

"Sir, are you alright?"

"I think someone should phone a medic."

"Where's the shop manager?"

"Hey, Bear!... Move ma'am. He's my cousin."

"Peter?" Arthur recognizes his voice, feeling undeniable relief. The splotches are starting to go away, but he feels incredibly nauseous.

"Arthur, are you okay?" Peter's blurry face fills his vision. A giant Batman figurine is clutched in his hands. "Bear, you okay?"

"I'm fine..." Arthur shakes his head, regaining his vision abruptly. Everyone within a meter's radius is staring at them. He feels his face heat up in embarrassment. "I'm sorry. I felt dizzy for a moment. Thanks for your..."

The shop manager finally pops his head around, having heard about the chaos. His utter insistence about calling for an ambulance is decidedly shut down by Arthur. He keeps on and on and on. Others that haven't moved are muttering about it, too. He looks awfully pale, unwell, shaken up. That was quite a tumble. It must have knocked the wind out of him. He does look sick, doesn't he?

Arthur abruptly snaps that he'd just like to make his purchase and be gone. As a token favor, he's allowed to skip the queue and buy Peter his toy.

Once out, he trots determinedly down the pavement so that Peter struggles to keep up. When he reaches the nearest toilet, he slams the cubicle door and dry heaves. His heart slows down, so much that he nearly has to rest his head against the toilet seat. The vertigo is otherworldly. But to hell if he's resting his head against a public toilet seat.

He dry heaves several times. He tries to stand several times, but his knees give out or his head spins or his stomach prompts his face to the toilet again. He feels like crying, but Peter is waiting on him. Ultimately, this gets his emotions under control and he is able to harness his panic again.

He unlocks the cubicle door, leaning sideways against the tile wall. His ribcage rattles with each breath and his left arm is beginning to feel numb again. Peter's big blue eyes meet his fearfully.

"B-Bear," He blubbers pathetically, causing Arthur to sigh.

"Now, don't be so ridiculous." He says in a rusty voice. "I'm alright. Just a bit sick. Come now. Belt up. Don't cry over me." He holds his arms out, grunting as he receives the full brunt of Peter and his pointy action figure. He traces his fingers through the boy's hair, dropping his chin to rest it there. "Hush. Now. We'll go home now, alright? Forget about this whole damned mess. I need a lie down anyway. Hush. Stop crying."

He pulls back, but Peter whimpers up at him fearfully, lower lip still trembling. "Are you gunna die?"

Arthur can't help but laugh at that. "Die? Peter we live in twenty-first century England. I haven't contracted the Bubonic Plague and last I checked the Vikings left us a little while ago."

Peter scowls, kicking his foot against the grimy tiles. "There's other ways to die, stupid."

"Like how? Getting shoved over by a spoiled brat in a toy shop?" Arthur rolls his eyes, pushing Peter playfully in the shoulder. "Come on now, if I was sick, wouldn't I go to a doctor?"

"Yeah." Peter finally agrees. "You're not stupid."

Arthur snorts. "There we go. Come on. Let's go home."

0 0 0

"It's good to see you're out of your hermit hole," His father remarks, startling him.

Arthur looks up from his laptop, forcing a wry smile. "I didn't much think I was missed."

His father settles across from him on the couch, crossing his legs. "Well, now Peter has a thing for you. I think James has missed having a younger brother to blame stuff on."

"Perhaps." Arthur shrugs, returning his attention to the laptop screen. He's messaging Alfred as they speak.

"why can't you video chat again?"

"I told you," Arthur types impatiently. "I'm in the family room right now."

"So? i'd like to meet ur family. but if ur so concerned go to ur room. i've got a few hours to kill."

"Of course, as time with me is only time wasted."

"Arthur, I really do think you could tone up nicely. You know I have the in home gym set downstairs. If you want, I could get James to go down with you. Might get him off his lazy ass."

Arthur shifts uncomfortably at his prodding gaze. "I'm fine. James works out all the time anyway. He doesn't need me slowing him down or getting in his way."

"Arrrrtiiie... how could you say that? honestly what do you think i think of you. let me rephrase what i was trying to say earlier: i want to spend four hours talking with u bc i love you and like listening to what you hav to say an dfor God sakes you haven't been on to talk with video in DAyS!"

Arthur shakes his head in slight amusement, feeling his heart burn.

"... Arthur?" His father reclaims his attention impatiently. "What are you reading on there?"

"I'm messaging a friend in America," Arthur says, wondering if they're going to have a repeat of what happened in his room.

"A good friend, then?"

"The best," Arthur settles to say as he types his answer, nearly smiling.

"Look, I've had an idea... I'm not sure about it, but I might MIGHT be able to come home early."

"WHAT?" Alfred responds instantly. "Like how early? i've been so bored out of my skull over here and hot damn! i could pick you up? when will you be here?"

Arthur feels an undeniable rush of warmth. For a second, he can't type. The emotion makes his heart stutter strangely. It's pleasant and painful. His mind rushes with the warmth, but his body can't seem to respond correctly. "As soon as i can." He types ineloquently. "Probably right after christmas. you can meet me?"

"Any time! god, i've missed you so much! what do you look like again i think i forgot. :P"

"You might be disappointed then."

"NEVER! (if you would fucking video chat with me this would be easier :P) i remember now you're sexy as goddammn hell and when you get back i'm taking you straihgt home mister and i'm kising the fuck out of u. and then we're gunna cuddle till our asses fall off."

"...I was expecting something a little more... sensual than cuddling."

"Cuddle first, fuck later. u can't eat dessert before dinner duh arthur."

Arthur grins softly. "I miss you."

"Well, hopefully.i'm painfully missable. :) i miss u too."

"I think we're both kind of ridiculous. It's barely been two weeks."

"so? when you love someone u miss them. tha'ts how it works. im not embarrassed about tht."

"I'm... I'm not either."

0 0 0

 _"...to run. Escape from the city and follow the sun. Cuz I wanna be yours. Don't you wanna be mine? I don't want to get lost in the dark of the night..."_

James comes to stand over him incredulously. "Are you singing?"

"I was, maybe." Arthur answers lazily, scratching his cheek. "Go play football." He twitches his foot sending James' ball trundling down the empty field.

"This is just a conjecture, but I think when Dad suggested we come out here, he meant for you to play too." James grins, nudging Arthur with his cleat. "Not for you to just lay in the grass while I run around you."

Arthur pushes his foot away, snorting. "Nothing's really changed, has it?"

"I guess not." James shrugs and jogs off to retrieve his ball. Arthur can hear him dribbling around effortlessly. It had been clear since James was born that he was destined to be a football player. He was wicked good.

It used to bother Arthur when he was younger and thought he wanted to be a football player too. His father had always told him that if he worked hard enough he might get as good as his brother. That just simply wasn't true. He hadn't the talent for it, at least not like James. As a product of his efforts, he wasn't terrible. He doubts whether he still retains any of the ability though, having fallen to the lazier pursuits of curling up with a book and avoiding the outdoors.

As he looks up at the uniform gray of his English sky, he feels content. His mind is made up and a modicum of control has been returned to his crazy life, or so it seems. His parents would be furious if they knew what he had just spent a good chunk of his savings on. Plane tickets are frightfully expensive, but with the deed done he only feels freed.

 _"This time I'm ready to run. Wherever you are is the place I belong. I wanna be free and I wanna be yours. I will never look back now..."_

"Why are you so happy all of a sudden?" James calls from somewhere, sounding amused. "Earlier, you were really moody."

"Why shouldn't I be happy?" Arthur says almost rhetorically. It's a good question.

"No," James pants and Arthur hears the swish of the ball being driven into the goal. "That's not what I'm saying. You're just usually not so cheery."

"I'm thinking about something good," Arthur admits, twisting the grass with his fingers. "I've actually got a serious question for you."

"What?"

"Do I look alright with a beard or should I shave it before I go back to Seattle?"

James comes to stand over him critically. "What? You've never grown it out."

"When I was eighteen maybe," Arthur shifts under his scrutiny. "Well?"

"You look woodsy." James decides. "It's different, but fine. Makes you look like a man." He lightly kicks Arthur in the shoulder before jogging off to find his ball.

"Haha, very funny." Arthur closes his eyes, knotting his fingers behind his head. "I'll probably keep it for Alfred to see and then I'll shave it. He won't show me his unless I show him mine. Might as well. As long as it's not embarrassing."

"Who's Alfred?"

"My boyfriend," Arthur frowns. "Didn't I tell you about this?"

"Yeah, you didn't say a name." James grunts as he kicks the ball.

"Yes, well, Alfred is his name." Arthur feels a blush crawling into his cheeks and is thankful that James isn't paying attention. "I'm going to get a haircut before I go back, though. It's nearly past my ears." He plays with it in disgust. This is what happens on holiday. He must look like some sort of homeless hermit, the beard and the longer hair and the fact that he's taken to wearing Alfred's hoodie everywhere.

"You ought to do something crazy with it," James suggests. "Get an undercut or a mohawk."

"Brilliant ideas," Arthur rolls his eyes. "Why don't you get a mohawk?"

"Too old. I'm almost twenty-six."

Arthur snorts. "I'm almost twenty-three. I eventually want a job. You're a footballer. No one would care on you."

"So you're saying you wish you could get a mohawk?"

"No, I'm not," Arthur says, smiling in exasperation. "I'm saying you're a dick."

"At your service," James laughs, slamming the ball into the goal again with incredible ease. They trail into companionable silence. Arthur watches the clouds, thinking that it's much more comfortable out here than back at the house. Even if his back hurts laying like this. Turns out the fall into the snowman had really bruised him up. His whole lower back is black and blue and aches whenever he sits in anything harder than an armchair. He had been shocked by it, wondering at how such a small tumble could cause such a mark. The kid must have pushed him harder than he thought.

It doesn't chip away from his mood though. He'd left the Xanax at home. Listening to James grunt and the thud of his cleats, the swhoop of the ball, gives him time to relax. He doesn't feel anxious. His end goal is in sight. He'll get to spend the rest of the holidays with Alfred and that makes his time here all the more bearable.

 _"There's a future in my life I can't foresee. Unless of course I stay on course and keep you next to me. There will always be the kind that criticize. But I know, yes I know, we'll be alright..."_

0 0 0

Arthur can feel his hands shaking with anticipation as he loads his hair up with bleach to get it looking semi decent. His hair is already blonde, but there are darker undertones and he wants it even. His new haircut is better than he thought it'd be. He'd went with James' idea and had gone with a slight undercut. Not much, but enough that the dye is going to look perfect.

As he works, he hums, finding that he's had his favorite bands in his head all day. He has on his only pair of black skinny jeans and an old ripped Clash t-shirt. The sleeves are rolled up in a way that he likes. He has to tiptoe a bit to keep from accidentally waking anybody. A red bandana swings from his pocket and he feels uncannily like painting his nails black.

Maybe it's childish. It has nothing to do with the fact that it's Christmas Eve. He's giddy about seeing Alfred tomorrow. His suitcase is packed behind him, and his ticket is printed and resting atop his stuff. Tomorrow evening he's trading London for Seattle and he can't wait. It's natural to miss someone you love, after all.

He thought about it and decided he wanted to surprise Alfred in more ways than one. He's keeping the beard. It's not much and he's definitely getting rid of it before Francis has the chance to say anything. But he wants to use it to bargain Alfred into growing his out. His hair, well, he'd planned on green, but the shop had only had blue. The haircut place had wanted to do it for him, but he trusts himself more.

"Sometimes you're better off dead. There's a gun in your hand and it's pointed at your head. You think you're mad, too unstable. Kicking in chairs and knocking down tables in a restaurant in a West End town. Call the police. There's a mad man around..." He sings absently as he carefully pulls the shower head down, bending over the tub. Washing the bleach out takes awhile. But after a quick towel dry he's pleased with the color. It's a pale white blonde and should do excellent with the dye.

He blowdrys it as quickly as he can manage, listening for sounds of his family. But no one wakes. Next, he wraps a towel about his neck, slipping on a new pair of disposable gloves. He's only dying the top, so he has to be careful not to get any on the bottom part.

He cracks his neck, carefully squirting a bit of fluorescent blue over his fingers, smirking. The bottle is abandoned as he begins spreading the goo over his fringe, combing it backwards and over the top.

"...Union's been on strike he's down on his luck it's tough, so tough. Gena works a diner all day, working for her man. She brings home her bed for love, for love. She says we've got hold on to what we've got. It doesn't make a difference if we make it or not. We've got each other and that's a lot for love... We'll give it a shot..."

Arthur pauses before the chorus, slicking his hair up quickly in James' joking mohawk.

"Ooooh, we're halfway there. Wooaah, living on a prayer. Take my hand. We'll make it I swear. Wooaah, living on a prayer."

He shakes his head, unable to help laughing. His mind races to another song as he begins to massage the dye in deeper to his roots. This reminds him too much of his time after they first moved to London. How angry he'd been, but also how excited. How determined he was to get lost in the city streets. As much as he's a sucker for old rock, for New Wave, and for punk, he can't help loving some of the songs that came out around when he was fifteen.

"Have you heard the news that you're dead? No one ever had much nice to say. I think they never liked you anyway. Oh take me from the hospital bed. Wouldn't it be grand to take a pistol by the hand? And wouldn't it be great if we were dead?"

He brushes down his hair, tongue sticking out slightly. Almost done.

"They're gonna clean up your looks with all the lies from the books to make a citizen out of you. Because they sleep with a gun. And keep an eye on you, son. So they can watch all the things you do... Cuz the drugs never work. They're gunna give you a smirk..."

He continues singing softly as he strips off the gloves and goes in search of his shoes. It'll be about forty minutes until he can wash the dye out and until then, he plans on sitting down and resting his godforsaken bruises. He wrestles out his phone and begins the pointless web search for a decent pub.

"Show me how to lie... You're getting better all the time. And turning all against the one is an art that's hard to teach. Another clever word sets off an unsuspecting herd and as you step back into line a mob jump to their feet..."

Arthur finds a decent place and not too long after, the dye is ready to come out. He grabs the shower head, swinging his chin over the edge of the tub. He watches the blue dye trickle over the white bottom, scrubbing along with his hand. He waits until the water is clear before crouching and groping around for a towel. A rough dry later, he shakes it out in the mirror and nods appreciatively.

"Perfect." He does another quick blowdry, considers styling it and changes his mind. Honestly, he's getting tired. Best to get out and get something to drink before he passes out.

Arthur, long the master of sneaking out of his parents' house, goes for the front door as it's the easiest way out and makes the least noise. He makes sure he has his key, money, and ID. The place he found isn't too far away, so if he gets hammered he'll have some hope of finding home again. As he opens the door, he nearly trips over a box on the front porch.

"Shit." He cusses, clinging to the railing for balance. He's about to just step over it, but his curiosity gets the better of him. He bends to take a look and feels his heart beat fast when he realizes it's addressed to him.

"Alfred."

The pub immediately escapes his mind. He grabs the box and returns to the kitchen in search of a pair of scissors. In the single light at the kitchen counter he cuts open the box, heart racing. For some reason, he feels all out of kilter. Of course, he's received Christmas presents before. But this. This is special. No one's ever gone to so much trouble to get him a gift before.

It's embarrassing how sentimental he is sometimes.

Finally, he jerks back the flaps. The first thing he's greet with is an especially glittery holiday card. He picks it up, snorting as it automatically dusts all over his shirt. Of course, thank you, Alfred. His hands shake a bit but he pushes it open. It's rather thick and he quickly realizes why as there's another envelope inside the card. He sets that aside while he reads Alfred's loopy handwriting.

 _"Hope this gets there in time for Christmas! It's kinda silly, so I hope you weren't expecting much. I've just really wanted to get you something good, so I tried. I know it's been a bit of a rough year for you, but I'm so proud of you for sticking it through. I'm sure this next year will be even better for both of us. Especially since I get to spend it with you._

 _I love you so much and can't wait for you to come home._

 _Love Alfred._

 _P.S. Try not to laugh at what's in the envelope, alright? I just thought it was only fair..."_

Arthur swallows heavily, tracing Alfred's handwriting and feeling his heart burn. Home? How odd of Alfred to say it that way.

Nonetheless, he shakes himself, gently setting the card to the side. Next, the envelope. He frowns curiously, slipping his nail under the edge. A stack of photos slips out and into his palm. He immediately understands what they are and can't help but smile in surprise.

They're pictures from Alfred's childhood, ranging from when he was a baby to his high school graduation picture. There's a picture of him as a toddler straddling a toy horse with only a diaper and a cowboy hat, racing down the hall. His brilliant blue eyes and goofy grin haven't changed all that much. Another picture shows him in a pinup pose across his first car. He cocks his head in a mock sexy fashion while another boy, strikingly similar, pretends to gawk. That must be his brother, Matthew.

As Arthur looks through each photo, he feels that this is more than present enough. He can't wait to return and have Alfred tell all the stories that go with the pictures, the moments in his life. He smiles again when he finds a picture of one year old Alfred in the bathtub. Alfred has written across the back of this one: Unashamed!

Finally, he tears his eyes away from them, setting them gently near the card. Reaching into the box, he pulls out another fat envelope. Another note from Alfred explains the contents.

"So my parents have always told me that the best way to get to know somebody is to spend a couple weeks living in the same place together. I don't have a lot of money, but I've got a decent savings. I thought I would put it to good use. There are two places that I want to take you. One, Chautauqua. I've got vouchers for plane tickets in the summer. Depending on your plans, we can redeem them for another time. I'd like to show you around there. I think you would really like it. Two, I got invited to compete in a Food Network show down in L.A (also this summer). I'll probably get knocked off the first round, but I'd really like it if you came down with me. I've never been to L.A. so we could turn it into a really cool vacation. The company is paying for me and another person to fly down. Wanna be my plus one? (I hope the answer is yes...)"

Arthur slips the ticket vouchers out, feeling shocked. These aren't cheap trips. Having just purchased a plane ticket, he knows the prices can be ridiculous. He feels his throat clog up for a minute and massages a hand across his face. He's glad Alfred isn't here. His reactions aren't anything up to par. He's so happy, but so surprised. So certain that it's all a mistake or a joke. Things like this don't happen to him. He doesn't meet nice boys like Alfred that love him back.

He's about to go through the pictures again when he realizes there's still one last thing in the box. Brow furrowing, he sticks his hand in, fingers greeted with something fuzzy. He grabs it carefully and his mouth slips open in surprise.

"Alfred..." He says, almost angrily, though his eyes fill ridiculously with tears. He just can't believe that Alfred knew. The floppy green Beanie Buddy stares back at him covered in baby soft fur. It's a child's toy, obviously. Bunny's are never green in real life. Neither do they have odd little wings or such cute beady black eyes. He does the automatic thing, pressing it quickly against his cheek.

"Alfred..." He whispers softly. Something pointy on the bunny's ear brushes his face. He pulls it back to look, realizing Alfred has written on the label.

"Saw you looking while we were buying Christmas lights. :) Merry Christmas, buddy! Love Alfred."

He stares into the eyes of the stuffed toy in silence. He hadn't realized how forgotten he felt until Alfred remembered him. Ruefully, he scrubs a fist over his watery eyes.

Gathering up his haul, Arthur heads straight for the couch. The pub is the farthest thing from his mind as he settles into the cushions with Alfred's stack of photos. In the dim light of the lone table lamp, he flips through them over and over, reading Alfred's notes and smiling at Alfred's smile.

The bunny rests on his chest where he can't help thinking that perhaps he'll keep it every night. His father didn't believe in getting little boys girly playthings. This has meaning beyond what Alfred meant it and beyond what he can express.

The night waxes on and eventually Arthur drops the pictures on the coffee table, scooting the bunny up so that it tickles beneath his chin. His breathing evens out, and for the first time in a long time, it's not guilt that drags him under.

0 0 0

An irritating, tickling sensation causes Arthur to shift restlessly in his spot. Oh god, it can't be morning already. He mumbles something indistinct, thoughts cluttered and unclear. All he wants to do is sleep forever. Christmas day be damned. The uncomfortable feeling drifts away and Arthur's consciousness along with it.

For what feels like a small eternity, he sleeps peacefully. Then the incredible sensation of being jerked draws his eyes open with a jolt. At first, he's too groggy to understand the scene before him. He doesn't remember falling asleep on the couch. He wonders why all of his family happen to be downstairs in the family room at the same time. His confusion, perhaps, isn't nearly so justified as it ought to be. Little signs had been all about- that the people he loved could guess more than he realized.

That Peter didn't quite believe him in the toy shop the other day and had secretly spilled the whole incident to his mum. That Arthur's own mother hadn't understood his sudden change in attitude towards dinner, that she had done a little investigating of her own and turned up the nurse's report on his university website. That James had asked their father quietly if he wouldn't mind stepping off Arthur for awhile. That his own father had only bothered him about working out because he worried was simply inconceivable. And that Murtagh and Jewels and Henry and his aunt and uncle all came to their separate conclusions didn't even cross Arthur's mind. The week might have went well because they left him alone, but he didn't realize they watched him.

So the scene he wakes to: His father is nearest, a handful of Arthur's shirt clenched in his palm. The crumpled London Calling album is forced somewhere near Arthur's chin. He notices that his bunny has been sentenced to the floor and feels such an irrational flood of anger that it stuns him. He wants to move, but he still feels paralyzed. Peter hides behind his father's back, peering anxiously around. He looks frightened, terrified. Arthur recognizes the look to be on the verge of tears as he's worn it himself too many times to count. The rest of the family disperses from there. James, who is holding Daniel, doesn't notice the baby's attempts for his attention. He stares quietly with an ashen face, before he meets Arthur's gaze. His brown eyes are full of something Arthur doesn't understand. Then, he looks away.

"Wossit..." Arthur scowls, wiping his face with his hand. He begins to sit up, but the pull makes him look down. His father's firm hand grasps his shirt, holding it up like immovable stone. Immediately, blood rushes to his face and he starts. His first impulse to tug away doesn't produce any effect. "What... what hell..." He can't find words, still lost between dreams and reality.

In his sleep, his jeans have slid lower on his hips so that the beginnings of his only tattoo as well as his happy trail are now visible to everyone. He scowls at his father's impertinence, wondering what the point of this particular embarrassment is. His thoughts, still unsorted, always seem to refuse to tell him the obvious.

"What are you doing?" He finally manages in what he hopes is a properly furious tone. Once again, his body seems to be failing him in the reacting department. A flood of vertigo sails through him, forcing him to lie down again.

Nobody answers. His father drops his shirt, but his hand remains. Arthur feels the heavy warmth of it atop his stomach and then his chest, making it hard to breathe. His father's thick calloused fingers work gently over his ribs then to the pronounced hollow of his belly. Arthur can't move off his back. Even as slow terror begins to fill him. It's happening again.

...so if you're troubled and hurt. What you got under your shirt will make 'em pay for the things that they did...

He shakes his head, trying to rid it of the dumb song. Trying to focus. Trying not to panic. His father takes his hand back in the silence. But he isn't finished. Instead he gently takes one of Arthur's hands, spreading out his fingers over his own palm. He makes an odd sound, a soft rush of air. He looks over his shoulder at his wife, who, Arthur realizes, has begun to cry.

"Wh-what's the matter?" He asks blankly, finding that his own voice terrifies him even more in the silence.

As neither his mother or father answer, Peter whispers tearfully, "You're too skinny, Bear. You're scaring me."

"Too..." Arthur scowls, jerking his hand back from his father. "That's what this is bloody about. You invade my privacy for that?"

"Arthur..." His mother interrupts pleadingly. "Arthur, you're sick. You're starving yourself."

Arthur's heart accelerates so much so quickly he nearly passes out. Instead, he grabs hold of the couch arm and propels himself to his feet. "Leave me alone! All of you! I don't love you! For God's sake, I've wanted to kill myself ever since I set foot in this hellhole." He points a shaking finger at his father, breathing heavily. "And don't pretend to care about me, okay? It's certainly not very funny and I'm not laughing. I fuck boys and I'll do it as many damn times as I want. Just because I'm not a goddamn heavyweight doesn't mean I'm dying. Fuck off. I'm twenty-three and you've never given a shit until right now? This spectacle is ridiculous. Ripping my shirt off for a bit of laughs or just to prove you're a great father. I'm not a footballer, okay? I hate working out! I'll never be fast! I'll never be good enough f-for you." His breath hitches at the end and he whirls punching one of the photo frames off the table.

He stops only in time to grab his bunny and present. He has to get out of here. He knows exactly where he wants to go. _Is someone making you do something you don't want to do?_

He clutches the bunny to his chest as he hurries up the stairs in lurches, unable to maintain his energetic momentum. His legs cramp. He wheezes, but there's no time for composure.

"Arthur," His father's stern voice echoes behind him like in a tunnel. But he's not listening. He's never listened.

He throws himself up the remaining stairs, jerking up his suitcase. Too heavy. Too heavy. Feverishly, he rips it open and starts to throw out all the clothes he doesn't care about. He gently places the bunny on the top, brushing over it tenderly with shaking fingers. The booming thuds on the stairs signal that they're coming for him. He flies to his feet, slamming the door in panic. The lock goes into its place with a shack.

But it won't be enough. He knows it won't be enough. His heart is on fire, but he needs to think. Think. He can't think. He can't goddamn focus. His hands shake terribly. He can't seem to control them. It takes several tries to get the zipper undone again on his suitcase, to find the bottle of Xanax and unscrew the lid. He doesn't count how many he swallows. He doesn't care.

Abruptly, he gets to his feet. The curved corners of the dresser drive mercilessly into the bony palms of his hands. Push. Faster. Harder. His calves scream, but he has to get it in front of the door. He has to. Or else they'll find him. Fuck it, they'll corner him. He can't rest in this house. He can't trust them. They're always pushing, prodding, poking, discovering... disappointing.

"For Christ's sake," he pants through tears. His lungs are being ripped apart. He knows it. His left arm suddenly swings loose of its hold. He can't control it. He slumps against the dresser, head slamming forward with a resounding smack.

But it's okay. It's okay. He's got it where it needs to be. He can sleep for now. And then later... the window... then Alfred.


	13. Chapter 13

**_Hey Guys, I totally meant to put this up yesterday, but I didn't have wifi at my hotel. It's officially summer for me! So hopefully, I will be around more often. :) For clarification, I've provided some of my old author's note._**

 ** _Why was Arthur's family all crowded around him and what drove his father to lift his shirt up like that?:_**

 _Honestly, I did a terrible job explaining this. It's not super important, but you might be thinking like wtf that was sudden. Here's what happened, insider scoop. Basically, it's Christmas morning. Peter comes bolting downstairs all excited to see what Santa got him (He, aunt, and uncle are all currently staying with Arthur's family because it's easier to spend holidays together this way). He notices that Arthur is asleep on the couch and like the nosy, curious thing that he is, goes over to scope. He sees as Arthur's shirt is riding up that Arthur has a tattoo and thinks that this would be interesting information for the rest of the family. (i.e. he tattles). Lo and behold, everyone else doesn't find much interest in that trivial detail as they see firsthand evidence of an entirely different problem. And scene. (I couldn't explain all of that because Arthur doesn't know and he's kind of too frazzled to care atm.)_

 **Evil father or what?** Welllll, i think that if you think about it. It's not black and white. All i'm gunna say.

 **Is Alfred coming back yet, savior of the story, riding on a white horse, with an American flag flapping in the background?** Yes. The answer will always be yes, until it's no.

 _ **Warning: Rough Sailing ahead, mates.**_

* * *

Perhaps it's just him, but really, it seems like only the worst people fly on Christmas Day. Arthur touches his forehead anxiously, trying to flatten his blue fringe over the frightful bruise. There's Mr. Family Plan over there with his fifty children, all bouncy, all whiny, all mortified to be flying on Christmas. It's practically a crime, after all.

Then there's Joe American with his entourage of ridiculous carryon souvenirs. A suitcase that bulky has to be concealing at least the Crown Jewels and a couple thousand t-shirts. Arthur doesn't understand the fascination with wearing another country's flag on your chest. If he wears his own, he's prideful and ridiculous and crazily patriotic. (That could also be because he has a wonderful pair of socks and trousers to match...) But it's okay for the Americans. It's red, white, and blue!

Amelia Earhart dances near the desk, determined to get the spot furthest from the emergency exit. "Manning that thing is a serious responsibility! Imagine it! We're going over the ocean and poof! Out of the sky and into the sea! I hope you all know how to swim."

Guy Fawkes over there looks extra protective of his black bag. Who knows what it contains and how he managed to get it through customs? Mr. Handlebar Mustache looks on uncomfortably while his wife of so many years patters on about the beautiful English countryside. He had only brought her for their anniversary. He's a real Texas man, didn't you know?

Arthur, determining himself in true stereotypical fashion to be resident English punk, tries tremendously not to pass out, waiting for the plane to begin boarding. He decides he'll have to tell Alfred the epic story of his journey, leaving out a few of the questionable, embarrassing parts, of course. When he arrives there'll be the insistence about seeking medical treatment for his head and yada yada. But really, except for the bruise(s), he's perfectly fine!

Upon waking, Arthur had found himself in a quickly darkening bedroom with a horrid headache. The dresser was wedged in front of the door, blocking any attempts of getting it open. Upon further inspection, Arthur found that it was still locked. Perhaps everybody had decided to leave him alone for the time being. Honestly, he really didn't care.

Crawling along the carpet, he made his way to his suitcase. It was much too heavy to be lugging around. An old backpack of Henry's makes an easier carryon. He shoves only one outfit and Alfred's gift inside. He can purchase new toiletries and clothing later.

Now comes the difficult part. Arthur doubts seriously whether he can remain on two feet for any length of time. Getting to the airport, going through the security queue, and waiting to board will require quite the length of time. He ponders his dilemma in silence. His head still pulses frightfully, so he decides to deal with that first. Wrestling about, he produces a bottle of aspirin from his tangle of discarded things.

A couple pills in the palm, a couple pills in the mouth, he should be on his way to feeling better in no time. He swallows heavily, casting around for something to grab onto in order to get to his feet. The sooner he can get back, the sooner he can be away from his family, the sooner he can get to Alfred. The sooner he can get to Alfred, the sooner he can sleep, the sooner he can be doted over by someone that loves him, the sooner he can be happy again. It's simple. Arthur is nothing if not a man of routine. Being here has messed up his internal clock beyond measure.

He will get back. He just has to keep himself goal-oriented. Force through the pain. Make the flight. Oh god. Make the flight! What damn time is it?

He blinks stupidly, trying to read Henry's alarm clock from his half slumped position on the bed. Okay, it's not too late. He's leaving later than he would have liked, but what with recent events he's willing to forgive himself. Arthur breathes out heavily, clutching desperately at the sheets. Now, if his body will just listen...

The bruises on his back are making this hard. His lungs ache and his chest is on fire. He doesn't understand why just now his body has to rebel against him. If he could get on with what he needs to do, then he would rest.

It takes a bit of maneuvering, but Arthur makes it to his feet. Congratulations are in order, but they're marred by the next problem. He doesn't believe going downstairs is a wise idea. That leaves him with his only option: the window.

He's done it before. As a teenager hellbent to make it to the party down the way. There's a fire escape on the building opposite theirs by the window of his old bedroom. Of course, he's currently in Henry's room, so he'll have to make do with what he's got. A flying leap to a shaking metal contraption doesn't seem all that likely in his current condition anyway. Arthur slips the backpack over his shoulders with shaking hands.

He eases open the window with difficulty. It's far too heavy than it needs to be. His arms quiver with the effort, but by sheer determination he gets it up. Then, he ungracefully bellyflops onto the small sliver of roof that overlooks the avenue. Thankfully, there's no one around to watch him embarrass himself. He looks about for his bearings and his eyes fall on the giant oak near the front of their property. A few meters away, it's branches brush against the roof of the building.

He crawls on hands and knees, scraping up his pants on the rough shingles. A sharp sting in his palm causes him to yelp. He scowls at the well of blood that begins to pool in his palm. Forgot the damn nails.

Nevertheless he makes it to the tree branches. Peering carefully over the edge, he realizes that he might actually have a death wish. A fall like that shouldn't kill him, right? Arthur reaches forward with his non-bloodied hand and grasps one of the branches. It's thin and shaky, but it gets thicker towards the base of the trunk. Then, it's a good forty meters to the ground. Arthur swallows. He's never been particularly excellent at boy's sport in the sense that he can't run fast, he can't climb structures and he is terrified of falling off of moving objects.

But even as his heart picks up, he can feel his resolve hardening. It's undignified and he shouldn't have to do this, but holy hell, he will. Tears prick uncomfortably at his eyes and he scrubs a fist over his face, breathing out. When he gets back to America, it'll be worth it. Things will return to normal. Alfred will be there to dust him off and bandage the cuts. He'll be alright.

Arthur nods to himself, taking a deep breath. He reaches as far forward as he can manage, wrapping his fingers securely around the branch. Hesitantly, his knee comes up to rest on the shaking limb. He nearly loses his balance, but brings his bleeding hand forward to catch farther down the branch. He's completely in the air now.

Arthur's pulse pounds with fright, but he forces himself one hand at a time to crawl towards the tree trunk and the sturdier branches. Once he reaches the trunk, he drops his head against it in relief, legs swinging in free space. He rubs his palms over the bark, wondering if the narrator of this horrid tale wouldn't mind tipping the tree like in Winnie the Pooh. Then he could just tumble to the ground a couple of centimeters and onto his back.

It doesn't happen though. He's going to have to make his way down.

The scary thing about climbing down a tree is that it's like reverse mechanics. Rather than seeing where you're going, you feel where you're going. Your foot hangs in empty space for ten eternities until you find the next branch lower... or not. Arthur's body shakes from the effort of maintaining an upright position. His arms are going numb. He hits his head on several branches. His hair gets pulled. His cheeks are scratched, but with each step he's nearer his goal and that makes him brave.

Perhaps too brave. Cocky. He underestimates his distance from the ground, so that when his foot slips rather than cling, he decides to just let go. He expects a couple meter tumble to grass. Instead, he hits the winter hardened ground like a sack of potatoes. At first with his foot, which twists, and then the full force of his back. The wind is knocked clear out of his chest.

He lays gagging for a moment. Only when he's finally able to draw a breath does he feel the pain of the fall. It's impossible not to cry. So he does. Just a little bit.

His ankle is already swelling like a balloon, but he gropes around, grabbing the tree and dragging himself to his feet. Damn, it hurts like holy hell. Arthur breathes out shakily, closing his eyes. Tube or taxi? Tube or taxi?

Tube, he's low on funds.

He limps down the pavement, ignoring the stares of onlookers. In his head, he's as good as gone. London will be a blur below the plane as they fast approach the Atlantic. He settles, wheezing in a tube seat and lets his head fall back against the window. He's too lazy to have a look at his foot. (And perhaps a bit frightened to see the damage. His stomach has been upset all day.)

When he gets to his destination, he trades the bliss of sitting down for hobbling. More funny looks. Nearly there, he thinks, nearly there.

Luckily, his bag is small enough to be considered a carryon. Only the security queue is keeping him from sitting down now. The queue drags forward like eternity. Perhaps not quite as eternal as usual, being Christmas day, but Arthur feels like he's seeing the world through a red lens of pain. It tends to try on his patience.

The security people look about a breath's notice away from stopping him. But he refuses fundamentally to be pitied by strangers and plugs forward after the scan before they can say anything. Then, he reaches the terminal he'll be boarding and collapses into a chair. Now, he waits.

The irritable people around him, the silent bustle, the odd music over the intercom, all of it fades. He closes his eyes until he hears the inevitable call.

"We will now be boarding all A1-A50. Please make your way up so we can begin boarding."

When his number is called, he shuffles along behind everyone else, thinking that at least he can sleep for seven hours. Then another five. God, he really should have thought about this more when he decided to study in Seattle. Twelve hours

of flight time is pretty extreme. He can't even begin to guess what time it'll be when he arrives. He didn't bring the earplugs Alfred had bought for him either. Arthur scowls. Then, his eyes widen in horror. He forgot to bring Alfred's books, too!

"Oh fuck," he mumbles, shoving his pass into the lady's hand and trudging forward heavily. It's a bad omen if nothing else. He'll have to purchase Alfred a new set. How could he forget about that?

Arthur collapses into the first available seat, unwilling to admit just how flighty he feels. His hands shake. Everything burns. He can't seem to calm down.

He sees the flight attendant through a blur of adrenaline. Her warnings about emergency exits are lost somewhere on their way to his ears.

Perhaps it's the vibe he's giving off, but she stops by his row first to see if he'd like anything to drink. Frazzled as he is, Arthur couldn't agree more with her and shells out the extra pounds for something alcoholic. It's a weird brand of beer that he's never heard of. But it feels good on his throat. He isn't complaining.

Dropping his head against the window, Arthur tries to relax. He made it this far. There's nothing to do now, but sleep and wait. If he had his way, he would already be in dream world. But his body seems to have other ideas. The pounding of his heart, the blurring of his vision, the tightness in all of his muscles, he feels like he's about to be attacked.

Without really thinking, Arthur pulls out the bottle of Xanax and fiddles with the cap. His motions are more jerky than they usually are. He blames it on the feeling of being trapped, being chased by his crazy family. They just love giving him problems, don't they?

Still... he feels like he's forgetting something important. Arthur's eyes ghost over the half-drained beer and the bottle of pills, but his thoughts are filled with fog. Surely, he's only imagining the reason to be anxious, much like when he used to have problems with anxiety. Shaking himself, Arthur decides he really could use a dose after all this.

He pours a couple in his palm and uses the beer to down them. This dose should do him for some time. He shouldn't need another one before Seattle.

Arthur puts the Xanax aside and rubs fiercely at his eyes. The cushioning feeling takes it's damn time getting there. Once it does, he's freer, dropping his head back against the seat. He stops the flight attendant for another beer, deciding that he likes this much better. The world may seem trapped in molasses, but it's a better state to be in than hyperactive panic.

Time drips on in its own way.

..

...

...

Arthur doesn't exactly remember switching flights in New York. Seven hours had passed a lot faster than he thought it would. There's a sloshy storm on the way that threatens to delay their flight. Arthur thinks vaguely that this would be a horrible setback, but by then they're on the plane. It must have been resolved.

He relaxes against a seat near the front, absently counting pocket change. Sometimes he mistakes ten pound notes for hundred pound notes, and then he has to start all over. He's never held a hundred pound note in his life, so he finds it slightly odd that they keep appearing in his handful of money.

The flight attendant is such a dear at providing him with drinks. Sometimes he wonders if he's tipping her too much. It's when his pounds turn into dollars that he begins to wonder if he hasn't gotten into Alfred's money. But that's alright. Alfred wouldn't mind paying for a few drinks, anyway.

Arthur turns the Xanax bottle upside down on his palm, frowning when nothing comes out. But he hasn't had one dose yet! How come he brought an empty bottle of pills with him from London? That makes absolutely no sense. He chuckles a little at his silliness.

The flight attendants, young, beautiful American women, seem to be having an awful lot of fun, hanging around his seat. He figures that he must be saying something to them, but the meaning of his words is lost on him. They probably just like his accent. Tipping his head to the side, he laughs bashfully and they laugh with him.

Somewhere along the way, he remembers Alfred and the thought nearly sends him over the moon with joy. He rambles to them about his beautiful American boyfriend. At first, they seem distant, but they get over it. Still finding him cute even though he's taken. Arthur smiles roguishly, sending one of them off to fetch him another beer. He's so glad he sat near the back. Alfred will have to meet his new friends. Maybe they can all get drinks together.

Alfred...

He smiles dizzily. His thoughts even clear a little bit. Soon, very soon, he'll be seeing Alfred again. He'll spend the rest of holiday draped blissfully over Alfred's chest in that wonderfully large bed made of marshmallows and fairy dust. Remembering suddenly, he reaches down and pulls out his new favorite thing.

The soft bunny stuffed animal becomes his new talking mate over the next few hours. He vaguely notices that the flight attendants seem to be avoiding his chair. It's no bother to him as he now has the bunny all to himself.

"See," he mumbles to it absently as he strokes it between the ears. "There's the perfect spot for you. You can curl up and stay there for however long you want. Well, until we get to Seattle of course. Then I'm moving and you best cling or you'll fall." He maneuvers the bunny's limbs so that it curls comfortably in the hollow made by the dip of his t-shirt over his stomach. "Perfect spot for you." He yawns. "Don't get too comfortable or I'll fall asleep too."

Arthur feels the sudden decrease in altitude as the plane plummets towards land. He shimmies himself into a sitting position to admire the gray and green landscape of one of his favorite places in the world.

He takes the bunny under his arm and gathers his bag. Being near the front, he should be one of the first off. But his legs, despite his utter enthusiasm, don't seem to be cooperating. When he's the last one on the plane glaring in consternation at the back of the seat in front of him, the flight attendant takes pity on him and helps haul him to his feet.

"Thank you," He tries to say, but the words are somewhat jumbled and she turns her head at the smell of his breath.

She continues talking about something as she leads him down the walkway to the airport. Her tone doesn't seem very nice, but Arthur's not dwelling on it. His heart stutters and swells with elation. Alfred will be here to meet him. Alfred Alfred AlfredAlfredalfredalfred.

She dumps him sort of sideways on the boarding desk. He groans, offering her a "Cheerio" because it seems fitting. The next steps are a bit more complicated. He's altogether too happy. His heart has never felt so large before, so heavy within him. He feels like he's carrying around a boulder. There's a couple moments where he's certain he's lost.

But it works out in the end. He finds the exit to the terminal and then not too long after sees Alfred. There's a small crowd of people waiting for the group of Christmas flightees, Alfred among them. He's dressed in a sloppy hoody and a pair of athletic shorts, along with his customary neon Nike AirMax. His messy golden hair curls out under a backwards Seattle Seahawks ballcap. He looks exhausted, but he smiles brilliantly when he sees Arthur through the crowd. Teasingly, Alfred reaches up to wave at his own head, indicating that he's noticed the blue. Arthur has only one more gate to go and then...

 _...so much and can't wait for you to come home._

The bunny slips suddenly from his fingers and Arthur stumbles to a halt. What? He makes to reach for it, but his body seems to take that as _reach for the ground._ He sprawls on all fours, feeling stupid. Where did it go?

 _...Arthur? Arthur!"_

Goddamn, he is just all over the place today. He can't find it. His vision. He can only see right in front of him. How odd.

 _"Can't you goddamn fucking see?... on the ground... Move out of my way... Arthur!..._

Arthur tries to take a breath, but it catches. Dear, that boulder in his chest is making... making it... m-making... hard to... th...in...k...

 _"Stop it! Stop it!... He's on the ground! Let me through!... Somebody help him!..._

The tile meets his cheek in a friendly kiss like Seattle is welcoming him home. How thoughtful. Neon flashes suddenly in front of his face. The Nike swish bearing down suddenly nearer. God, how he hates football. He never wants to see another piece of sports equipment ever again.

 _"Arthur! Arthur, can you hear me? Hold on... they're gunna get help. Hold on... Can you hear m...e...?"_

Maybe if you scream a little louder, he thinks. Someone pushes him onto his back. His head lulls back to smack the tile. There's a tremendous banging sound. He hopes that his father won't be so insistent as to beat down the door. He never seems to get any privacy in this house.

 _"...mergency... please..."_

A sudden thrust to the chest and Arthur knows the football is going to make him throw up all over again.

 _"Ar...thur?... ca..n...yo...u...hea...r...m...e?_

It's fine. It's fine. He knows it's fine. He'll just stop being gay. He'll just stop being himself. That'll solve everyone's problems. He'll just stop being Arthur.

 _"A...r...thu...r?"_

Who is that?

"He's not responding."


	14. Chapter 14

**Fun fact (sort of): If you didn't know, cardiac arrest and heart attacks are different things. Cardiac arrest occurs when the rhythm of the heart (which has to do with electrical impulses) is disrupted and completely stops. Arthur experienced cardiac arrest, which is what the AED is used for. Cardiac arrest is more dangerous than a heart attack, because the heart actually stops. (And if you didn't know, now you know, Mr. President ;)**

 **Soooo... last chapter Arthur made a pretty dumb mistake. Do you know what it is? Coupled with the fact that anorexics have scarily low heart rates already, this proved too much for his body to handle. (Hint: Alcohol is a depressant. Xanax is also a depressant.)**

 **And there's my educational tidbit. You'll be receiving unwanted medical notices throughout the rest of the story. Congrats. :P**

* * *

Arthur shifts uncomfortably, growling at the onset of consciousness. He feels a sudden rush of air rocket through him without his permission, inflating his chest painfully.

Slowly, he cracks his eyes open. A host of shady, yellowing ceiling tiles meets his gaze. As if in a dream, he gradually becomes aware of his surroundings. The first thing he notices is the giant apparatus taped over his mouth. A whirl of panic flows through him, dizzying in its force. The steady beeping that has been going on all this time accelerates. A heart monitor, he recognizes that.

Arthur realizes he can't very well breathe on his own as he tries to calm himself with a deep breath only to realize he can't. Slowly, he lifts his fingers, bluish in the electric light and touches the large tubular contraption coming out of his mouth. The buzzing sucking noise it makes forces air in. Then, out. He tries to swallow and suddenly feels the tube rustling somewhere in his throat.

His heart beats faster and he looks about in panic. Hospital. He's in a hospital. How did he get here? At his movement, there's a painful, unfamiliar pull on his abdomen. Arthur sees through the thin covers and gown that some shape sticks up. Cautiously, he peels back the covers, craning his neck against the onslaught of tubes. His hospital gown has buttons in the front. A couple are undone and a thin yellowish tube trails outward and down to connect with some other machine.

Arthur pulls the buttons undone with shaking fingers. The tube continues straight up to his stomach and then disappears into a small, gunky hole there. Feeding tube. The words hit him sharply. Like he's been stabbed. There's so many things wrong with this situation. He can't think clearly about how he feels. All he knows is that he's afraid.

No one is in the room with him. Arthur looks about wildly, wishing there was a way to get the stupid ventilator out of his mouth. With it there, he can't move. Can't speak. Can't make a sound. He's trapped with his thoughts and those are hardly good company.

In many ways, he wants to figure out what happened. But in others... Fanatically, he rips open the remaining buttons and

claws at the feeding tube... He doesn't want to know at all.

It only takes a few seconds for the exhaustion to hit him. He can't hold his head up against the weight of the ventilator tubes any longer and has to drop it back onto his pillow. His ugly blue fringe is slick against his forehead with sweat. The ventilator fills his lungs up and then releases mechanically. He sees the tips of his bluish toes peeking out from the tousled covers. A violent shiver wracks through him. His breath would have hitched, but the machine keeps him terribly accurate.

As he begins to resign himself to the position for the rest of eternity, the subtle sound of voices becomes audible outside the open door of his hospital room.

"...able to stabilize him for the time being. ...not our most pressing concern... Doctor... insertion of a feeding tube..."

"Be honest with me. How bad?"

Arthur's heart rate spikes. That's Alfred. Alfred is out there. A crushing frustration makes him want to scream. He can hardly make a sound with the ventilator in.

"Please," Alfred continues. "His father signed off in my involvement. I know Arthur would want this. He hasn't got any family here."

There is silence for the moment. Arthur cranes his ears to catch the conversation.

"...severely underweight. His experience tonight is due largely to previous bradycardia caused by extreme weight loss and further worsened by the effects of drugs and alcohol. Like I said, we've stabilized him for the time being, but our next steps are to be taken with care. You would say that he has difficulty eating?"

"Yes," Alfred whispers quietly.

"Then most likely he has a severe form of untreated anorexia. Already, this has had dangerous detrimental effects on the muscle of the heart walls. Doctor Jacobs is anxious to do a full examination on him tomorrow to check for any other signs of organ failure."

"You mean..." Alfred's voice lowers, shakes. "You're telling me... He could die from this?"

Silence.

"The most important thing is to assess the damage and promote weight gain. I would-"

"No, answer my question. He could have died, couldn't he? He could have died!"

"Mr. Jones, please lower your voice!"

"Then answer my-"

"Yes, he could have died. This episode is the conclusion of long term starvation. He is in serious condition. Even now, we are not out of the woods. The insertion of a feeding tube was necessary. Without intervention, he is in such critical condition that it is not likely he would last another week."

"But... but how could... how did nobody know?"

Silence.

"How much does he weigh?" Alfred plunges on, sharply. "How... how much? He didn't... He didn't look this bad before... when he left."

Silence.

"Well, he just has to eat, doesn't he? Why don't you make him? Why is this difficult? Why are we waiting?!"

Silence.

Silence.

Silence.

Then.

"I have to go," Alfred whispers. "I really have... to..."

Arthur's eyes widen in disbelief. Go? They haven't even seen each other. Alfred can't go yet. Alfred can't leave him here. Tied to a bed. Filled with insanity. Deluded doctors all around that are just going to try and fix something that isn't broken. He isn't broken!

He makes an unearthly groaning noise, feeling the horrid tube against his throat. Don't leave! He can't leave yet! Arthur needs him. Arthur... Arthur... He feels tears start to pool and puddle on his cheeks. He needs Alfred.

The noise brings the gray-haired doctor around, looking surprised to see him awake. He comes forward quickly, adjusting the tube so that the pinching sensation suddenly vanishes. Arthur can't muster a glare for the doctor. Only one of asking. Get Alfred. He thinks as loudly as he can. Please. Get Alfred.

"Mr. Jones?" The doctor moves out of Arthur's line of sight, so that he can see Alfred in the doorway.

He can't make another noise. How he wishes he could talk but he can't.

Alfred, still dressed in athletic shorts and his Seahawks hat, looks exhausted. Arthur wonders briefly how long they've been here. But that's out of his mind quickly. Alfred is acting strange. He has a weird look on his face. Why won't he come into the room? Can't he see... can't he tell that...

Arthur shifts around restlessly, glowering at the doctor. The man's thick fingers refasten the buttons of his gown, leaving one for the feeding tube to poke out. Then, he gently pulls the covers up and reaches for a clipboard at the end of the bed.

"He's awake?" Alfred asks the doctor like it isn't already obvious.

"Yes and he can hear you." The doctor adds with the slightest of smiles. His deep brown eyes soften as he lowers the clipboard. "He needs to rest, but it would perhaps put him more at ease to hear the story of how he arrived. Would you like to tell him?"

Alfred swallows hard, avoiding Arthur's eyes. "No. I think you would do it better."

"Very well." The doctor turns to Arthur with a sort of rusty sigh. "Mr. Kirkland, you seem to have had a bit of heart trouble." He sighs again. "Jokes aside, I must tell you that you're lucky to be alive. If your boyfriend here hadn't acted so quickly, I can't say exactly what would have happened. There are several things we will have to discuss in the future that pertain, but for now, I think that should help you to understand why you are stuck here. Tomorrow, we'll be having our resident psychiatrist come up and speak with you. For now, please try and rest. After such an eventful flight, I imagine you're ready for a nap." He pats Arthur's knee lightly.

Arthur scowls, ignoring the thundering of his heart. Though, they all know about it as the heart monitor broadcasts it to the universe. Alfred avoids his gaze.

The doctor looks between the two of them, before the beep of his pager draws him elsewhere. Alfred stands like immovable stone in the doorway, and Arthur begins to feel afraid.

He tries to make a noise, move around. Anything that will get Alfred to look at him. Alfred doesn't notice, though and goes on staring at the floor. He eventually manages a suitable squeaking sound, but by this point it dawns on him that Alfred isn't looking on purpose.

The exhaustion of the effort forces Arthur's head back against the pillow. He can't move anymore. He's tired, so tired. His vision sparks with black spots. The full force of his situation hits him like a train. The tears start up again and even against the stream of the ventilator he begins to huff as the tremors shake his chest.

Alfred finally looks up. His blue eyes are full of reluctance. It seems as if he has to force himself to take the few steps to Arthur's bed and even then he stops about a foot away. Arthur watches him through the tears, feeling too worn to hold them back. What's the matter? Why doesn't Alfred want to see him?

The surprise shines in his eyes when Alfred reaches forward suddenly and grabs his wrist. He holds it up, Arthur too tired to resist. His thick fingers rub over Arthur's. Easily, he dwarfs Arthur's hand with his. He sets it down.

Looks away.

What's wrong? Arthur thinks wildly. What's wrong with you?

"I'm sorry," Alfred tells the wall. "This... th-this is hard for me." His breath hitches and he quickly covers his face with his hand.

Arthur's heart beats faster. Alfred's emotion is too much. What is Alfred upset about? He's fine. Obviously, he's fine.

When Alfred starts to walk away, he panics. Wait! He can't be left alone. There's nothing wrong with him! Alfred can't leave him here by himself. They were supposed to go home and spend the holiday together. This wasn't supposed to happen! He's fine now! His heart is fine! He'll rest! He'll sleep in Alfred's bed! Alfred has to still want him! That's why he came back.

He squeaks pitifully, wriggling to the best of his abilities. If Alfred's leaving, he's leaving too. His vision sparks and he nearly faints. He waves a hand outwards and smacks it hard on the bedside chair, only prompting more tears.

Alfred turns back to see him in a half-slumped sitting position with tears streaming. Can't he tell... can't he see... can't...

"Stop it." Alfred says with a bothered frown. "You're going to hurt yourself." He hesitates, glancing back at the door, before taking the final steps to close the distance between them. Gently, he takes the back of Arthur's head and steers him forcefully to rest against the pillow. "You need to rest, remember? You need to rest."

His hand wavers for only a second before he brings it down to stroke Arthur's hair back. With each stroke, Alfred seems to grow more relaxed. Finally, he meets Arthur's worried green gaze.

"You're afraid," he says quietly. He drops his hand to cradle Arthur's cheek and looks away. The silence continues and a couple more tears slip from Arthur's eyes.

"I am too." Alfred murmurs, barely audible. "And I'm... I'm having a hard time... Usually, I can just tell people that it'll be alright, but every time I look at you... I'm... I..." Arthur watches in horror as Alfred's blue eyes fill with tears.

"Why did you lie to me?" Alfred asks with a watery laugh, rubbing at his face with the heel of his hand. "Why did you say you were fine? Why did I let you leave? It's just... I don't understand why things happen like they do." He shakes his head.

Arthur frowns up at him worriedly, finding that he's too tired to even attempt thinking about the answers to any of those questions.

"I'll... I'll stay for awhile." Alfred finally manages. Something grabs his attention near the bed. "One of the EMTs rescued this for us. I'm glad to see you like it." He reaches over and grabs the plush green bunny. Arthur feels a sudden longing for it, but he doesn't have to do anything. Alfred is already gently tucking it in beside him.

"Also, this is very new." Alfred reaches up to touch his sweaty blue hair. "I almost didn't recognize you at first. You're always surprising me." He combs at Arthur's hair gently with a sad smile. He falls into silence, just petting him in a soothing motion.

Arthur's heart feels like it's swelling. It's not what he would have hoped for his return, but in many ways this is the core of what he wanted anyway.

"Hey," Alfred taps him lightly on the tip of his nose. "Don't try to stay awake, goofball. If your eyelids slip, let them. You need it."

But Arthur certainly doesn't want to sleep. He fears that if he closes his eyes he'll wake up and Alfred will be gone. The soft pad of Alfred's thumb brushes away the remainder of his tears. Arthur watches him seriously. He wants to ask how long it'll be before he gets out of here.

Seeing that Arthur is being as stubborn as ever, Alfred smiles. He bends down and gently kisses him on the forehead, no doubt feeling the hefty tube contraption brush under his chin. "Christmas was boring as hell without you. There was a movie special on Hallmark. We could have spent all day watching romcoms and cuddling. You would have complained and I would have ignored you. And then at that one scene in It's A Wonderful Life, you know the part where Zouzou says, "Every time a bell rings an angel gets his wings"? I was going to kiss you. It doesn't really make sense, but I thought with the old music at the end, where everybody's happy together... we could usher in a good New Year. Things wouldn't have been so hard."

He laughs tiredly. "As it was, I spent all day by myself and ate all of our chocolate. The decorations are still up, though... I thought that when you got back we could have our own holiday, but... I see now that's not-" He clears his throat, rubbing quickly at his eyes. "Probably not in the plans."

Arthur scowls. Not in the plans? Says who? The second he can actually speak he's talking his way right out of here.

Alfred just smiles at him until his expression softens. "I love you, Arthur," He says quietly.

He settles himself on the edge of Arthur's bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Alfred doesn't look at him for long periods of time. Perhaps it's the hospital gown, the tubes? He doesn't understand.

"You seem like you want to talk." Alfred remarks suddenly with an almost coy smile.

Arthur rolls his eyes, causing Alfred to laugh.

"Here. I have an idea." He holds up one finger. "I'll be right back."

No! Arthur wants to shout, but Alfred has already darted from the room, leaving him alone. Damn the stupid ventilator to hell and back. He can totally breathe on his own anyway. Doctors are entirely overly cautious.

Alfred reappears before he can really start to worry though. He holds up a pen and a piece of paper with a wink. "Just admit it. I'm brilliant. You like writing anyway. Here, let me help you sit up."

Once Alfred has gotten him into a sloppy sitting position, Arthur uses the retractable tray as a writing desk. He finds as he sets the pen to paper that now he has no idea what to say. Looking up at Alfred, who blinks earnestly, he can only think of one thing.

 _I missed you._

He expects Alfred to respond with an obnoxious, "Duh." Instead, Alfred quickly looks away with a pained laugh. He scrubs at his eyes again with an irritated groan.

"Ah, thanks, buddy. I missed you, too."

Arthur frowns skeptically. He would have preferred the duh.

 _What's wrong with you?_

"Me?" Alfred blinks and then sighs. "Nothing. It's just hard... I can't imagine what would've happened if on the plane..." He trails off, biting his lip. His eyes shimmer and he looks away again.

Arthur's heart rate picks up. Alfred is worried. Worried about him.

 _Don't worry about me._

"That's easier said than done." Alfred pretends to punch him lightly in the shoulder. "I know you're tough, though. You're gonna try. I know you will."

Arthur frowns harder. He's not sick, he thinks. But something stays his hand from writing the words.

 _Are you going to stay with me?_

"Do you want me to?" Alfred asks quietly.

 _Yes._

Alfred flinches at how quickly he writes the answer. Soon his gaze is fixed on the wall again. "I'll stay for as long as I can. P-promise."

Arthur hesitates.

 _Why won't you look at me?_

Alfred stares at the words for a long time. Then, he looks at the ceiling.

Arthur quickly begins to write again. _Is it because of the tubes or the gown? Don't worry about them Alfred I'll be fi-_ "

But Alfred stops his hand suddenly and looks into his eyes. "Arthur," he whispers, his voice going rough. He blinks and breathes out heavily. "Arthur, please don't pretend. Don't pretend anymore. It's so... so much worse than when you left. Please don't pretend anymore."

Pretend? Arthur shifts uncomfortably at Alfred's emotion. Since when has he been pretending?

"It... hurts me." Alfred continues softly. "It hurts me... to see you hurting."

Arthur swallows heavily, carefully taking up the pen again.

 _I don't understand. How am I hurting you? I'm sorry I frightened you. I'm okay now. Look at me! I'm fine!_

He begins to write desperately. As Alfred sees the first words, he immediately looks away. Suddenly he stands up, spinning towards the door and threading his fingers violently through his hair.

"I can't do this, Arthur." He tells the wall. "You don't listen."

Don't listen? How is he not listening! Arthur shifts anxiously, praying that Alfred won't leave him alone again.

"Arthur..." Alfred continues brokenly. He drops his hands and his shoulders sag. "You know the truth. How can you not? Arthur, you don't eat. You don't eat and it's killing you. That's why your heart stopped. That's why you feel the way you do. That's why you're stuck here. Can't you see that? Please..." His breath hitches. "Please don't pretend anymore. It hurts so much more. You have to know. You're... you're scaring me."

Silence.

Alfred slowly turns back around. Throws a glance at the paper, but Arthur has written nothing. His green eyes are hard, and he glares at Alfred angrily. Alfred was the one person he thought he could trust on this. Alfred was the one person who wasn't going to push or bother him. Now, it seems Alfred is just like everybody else.

"Arthur..." Alfred starts in a worried tone.

But Arthur scrawls sharply, _I'm fine._ And shoves the paper Alfred's way. He doesn't want to talk anymore.

Alfred takes one look at the words and the most pained expression yet crosses over his features. He suddenly grabs the sheet and crumples it, throwing it as hard as he can against the ground. His hat soon joins it on the floor as Alfred chucks that too. He looks ready to scream in frustration. Such a violent reaction has even broken Arthur's harsh expression for a second.

"Fine, fine, fine. Aren't we all fine?" Alfred laughs, almost manically. He reaches down and scrapes his hat off the floor. "The lights are on, Arthur! But every time I knock, nobody's home!"

Arthur watches him warily. He seems to have flown completely off the handle and is bordering on psychotic.

"That's alright, though." Alfred laughs again. "That's alright. I'm alright. We're all alright." His laughter which is highly charged and stressful starts to crack. "I mean, why bother with the truth? The truth can k-kill you. It's why I didn't ask. It's why I never asked you. Now... Now..." He looks at Arthur and his blue eyes fill with tears.

"You're fine way too often, Arthur," he says brokenly. "No one's ever that fine."

Arthur watches him quietly.

Alfred breathes out and scrubs at his face again. A large sigh seems to shake his whole body. In slow motion, he reaches down, grabs the paper, and smoothes it out. "I'm sorry." He murmurs, gently putting the pen in Arthur's hand again. His voice shakes, but he clears his throat. "I shouldn't get so worked up. I know that doesn't help. Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable?"

 _You can try not to go so bat shit crazy. Holy fuck, Alfred._

Alfred reads his note and laughs tiredly. He doesn't look very sorry though. He almost looks hurt. "Okay, I'll keep it monotone. Who doesn't love a little melodrama, honestly?" His smile is strained, but he manages. He leans forward and gently kisses Arthur on the forehead. "I'm sorry."

Arthur has the odd urge to yawn around the ventilator but isn't quite sure how to manage that. Alfred grins. "Let me help you." He pushes the retractable tray out of the way, puts his hand gently under Arthur's and helps him settle into a more comfortable position.

"There we go." Alfred kisses him lightly again. "Try to sleep. Okay?"

Arthur nods, closing his eyes and enjoying the gentle rubbing sensation as Alfred brushes at his hair.

Next time he opens his eyes, Alfred is gone.

He attempts to ask the nurse what happened. His gestures are lost on her. Finally, he manages to mime writing and she goes to fetch him some paper.

 _Have you seen the man that was in here earlier? He had golden blonde hair and blue eyes and a Seahawks hat. Do you know why he left?_

She shakes her head, giving him a slight shrug. "I didn't see anybody in here. He must have left before my shift."

 _When did your shift start?_

"Last night at about 2:30a.m. Was he here early in the evening?"

 _No, it was late._

"Then, I must have just missed him."

Arthur scowls at her smile, dropping his gaze to his hands. Alfred promised.

Once she's gone, he takes the opportunity to throw the stupid green bunny at the wall.

0 0 0

"Try to calm down, Mr. Kirkland." The gray-haired doctor murmurs, watching the heart monitor skeptically.

Arthur glowers at him through tears. He doesn't understand. His body... when he doesn't take... He needs...

Finally, he slaps his hand against the bed in frustration, gaining the doctor's attention again. He waves, pointing towards the far wall. If they're not going to give him pills, they can at least give him this. Please understand, he thinks.

The man isn't as stupid as he looks. His deep brown eyes trail slowly in that direction...

He begins to walk over there and when he comes back:

"Looking for a friend, aren't we?" He says and gently sets the bunny in Arthur's hand.

Arthur wonders if it's possible to choke with the ventilator in. His tears still fall rapidly and he looks away. Refusing to speak to the psychiatrist hadn't been his proudest moment. Now in the aftermath, he finds himself thoroughly convinced that he's broken beyond repair.

"Now," The doctor says quietly. "We'll give him a few days, alright? Your family has given their consent to his involvement in your affairs since they can't be here. He seems like a good guy, just a little frightened."

Arthur swallows heavily, turning his face as more tears gather.

"It probably doesn't seem like it right now, but he cares about you. He's derailed. Every time he looks at you, he sees his own mistakes. Can you understand that? He sees every time that he could have said something or done something. He wonders if he's better off elsewhere." The doctor trails looking slightly regretful. "Don't worry too much. We'll give him a few days, alright? Then we can call him up and see how things are shaping out, okay?"


	15. Chapter 15

**Sorry, this is a little later than I usually post, but here we go!**

 **I just want to say thank you for all the support this story has been receiving.**

 **Also, all the measurements in this story are generally going to be American measurements. Arthur's weight for instance will be in pounds. (I know many places weigh in kg.)**

 **Much love to all of you wonderful folks, doze.**

* * *

A few days. A few days. Arthur could almost laugh.

Even as they dragged Alfred back kicking and screaming, it changed nothing. How they managed to convince him to come in and sit for an hour is beyond Arthur. He doesn't speak. He doesn't look. He plays on his phone, glances at the door, and keeps his coat on the whole time. He's only there to leave.

Arthur wishes that he could just put Alfred out of his misery already. Send him away. Yet, they haven't given him a sheet of paper in so long. After he cussed out the psychiatrist, the whole world seems intent on giving him the silent treatment. Any decision he might have made is compromised. He might as well be chained to the bed for all his input is worth. The feeding tube, which had gone grossly infected, doesn't do much besides keep him alive. Or so the doctors tell him.

He can't eat with the ventilator in anyway. He's not sure exactly what's wrong with his lungs. They speak in whispers about weaning him off the increased oxygen level. Doubt pervades their every word. 85 is just another number to Arthur. No matter how many times they say it, it isn't going to shock him. He's known his weight backwards and forwards for as long as he can remember. He just wishes they would spout it with Alfred in the room. It might be the final straw that breaks whatever weary hold forged of obligation and pity that keeps him returning.

"Fine! I never said you couldn't come, alright? You just read into whatever I say."

Arthur recognizes that exasperated tone. He sends a glance at the door, wondering what app Alfred will be playing today. Yesterday, he beat his high score in Candy Crush. Arthur had never felt so strong an urge to congratulate him from his upside down view. Just goes to show how dreary his days have gotten.

"Look, Alfred, you don't have to keep secrets from anybody. I've been friends with him longer than he's known you. I don't need this from you."

"Wait, wait.. Shelly! Wait..." Alfred's voice lowers. "He's different... now. Worse."

Shelly makes a sort of groan and Arthur hears their coats rustle. "You're different now. Move."

She appears in the doorway, smiling brilliantly. Arthur feels like he should offer her some kind of grand welcome. A lady has graced their man cave. He can't even really manage a grin with the ventilator wedged in his mouth. Alfred shuffles along behind her. For the first time in a few days, they meet gazes. Alfred, much different than the smiling, bubbly cooking student of months ago, gives a shrug and jerks his head at her as if to say. "Girls, am I right?"

Arthur rolls his eyes. Then raises his eyebrows at her in welcome. Her smile has faltered though. She glances quickly back at Alfred in surprise. She takes a step backwards so that her back runs into Alfred's chest. "Wh-what-"

"Sshh." Alfred silences her quickly, patting her shoulder. "I'll grab you a chair." To put her at ease, he begins talking. "Bet Arthur's super glad to see some other face besides my ugly mug. I would have brought you earlier, but... yeah, well, things have been crazy." He draws up chairs for the both of them. Arthur notices that he doesn't take his jacket off. Or his gloves. Again.

Shelly perches on the very edge of the seat, looking uncomfortable. She looks at him or rather doesn't look, but stares. Her eyes trace his frame until she can't seem to stand it, and she turns abruptly to Alfred, looking distressed. "Wh-what-"

"Shelly." Alfred interrupts her lightly, fishing around for his iPhone. He produces it from the folds of his winter coat with some amount of pleasure, fiddling around until he's found the right game. Arthur wonders what it will be today. Shelly is surprised.

"Alfred, what are you doing?"

"It's a ritual," Alfred tells her without looking up. "I stay here until I'm sick and tired of it and then I go home."

"Alfred," Her tone is colored in disbelief, but Arthur notices she avoids looking at him just as much as Alfred does.

"What? I'm doing better than everyone else," Alfred's fingers slip slightly, losing him a couple points. Only Arthur seems to notice his agitation. Shelly is still angry. He has a sudden fear that if she pushes too hard Alfred will leave. "I mean," Alfred continues unpleasantly. "No one else comes to visit our plane of existence."

"Yes, because I'm just supposed to know?" She shoots back sharply. "You wouldn't answer any of my calls."

"Yeah, well, I was a bit busy," Alfred gives a grandiose wave about the dreary room. Outside the rain picks up a bit and the gray of the wallpaper is complimented by an eerie flash of lightning.

"Oh, because you're Mr. Martyr." Shelly growls. "I'm sure he loves sitting with someone who ignores him the entire time."

Arthur frowns worriedly as Alfred's fingers slip again. His grip tightens on the hard case. Arthur imagines he can hear the groan of the plastic underneath the pressure.

"Okay," Alfred says. "Maybe you're right. I'm a screw up. But you can't even look at him for longer than ten seconds. So get off my ass, would you?"

Her eyes flitter back over Arthur and her fight drains out. Arthur feels a twinge of irritability. Thanks Alfred, he thinks, it's great to know that I'm the cause of everybody's misery.

Shelly suddenly looks back at Alfred, and Arthur knows that look. Oh, he knows it so well. She's biting her lip and trying not to blink. At least, Alfred doesn't dissolve into tears anymore. He appreciates that at least.

"Al-Alfred..." Her voice cracks and her big brown eyes start to shine.

Alfred shifts, rubbing his shoe along the tile. Her sadness is doing nothing to water down his temper. But Arthur watches as he contains it carefully in the steady motion of his iPhone game. He doesn't say anything to her for awhile. But she's still expecting a response.

Alfred sighs and looks up at the ceiling for a very long time. "I told you about this. I told you I hadn't talked to him for nearly two weeks on vide-"

"But how could you not know!" She asks. "How could you-"

"Well, I don't see why you're blaming me!" Alfred suddenly explodes, standing so fast that his chair crashes over. Arthur would have flinched if he hadn't saw it coming. Alfred used to be such an easy going guy. Under all this stress, he's been molded into something just foreign enough that Arthur is afraid, yet just similar enough that Arthur wouldn't quite wish him away yet. "It's his damned stupid family that weren't paying attention! How is this my fault? How has this ever been my fault?"

Arthur feels entirely withdrawn from the argument, like he's watching his brothers bicker over something that doesn't concern him. Alfred isn't the same anymore. He's not going to kid himself. That sunny smile finally grew to be infected by the Seattle rain. Arthur doesn't like to think about it too much, because whatever happened to Alfred is his fault. He doesn't deserve to moan over the fact that Alfred doesn't care about him like before. Not when he ruined Alfred. Not when he destroyed the one good thing in his life.

There's some small consolation though. He watches as Shelly screams back.

At least now that he's ruined Alfred for himself, it seems like he's ruined Alfred for everybody.

Shelly sends Arthur one more guilty look before fleeing the room. She oughtn't feel too bad. Arthur doubts whether his family would have stayed any longer. He glances at Alfred, expecting the boy to call it quits a little early. What with that debacle, he probably doesn't have it in him to even pretend to care.

Alfred closes his eyes and runs his fingers through his hair. Getting irritated with his gloves, he suddenly dumps them on the ground. He grabs one of the chairs and drags it up to Arthur's bedside. His favorite Seattle Seahawks hat is flecked with rain. After a moment, he pulls it off and fiddles with it. His long tan fingers shake a bit.

"I'm sorry," he says to the hat. "I shouldn't have gotten so mad at her. I just... I told her, see. And I knew I wouldn't be able to handle it, if she started getting, I don't know, freaked or whatever." He trails grumbling. "I mean, I like to think I know you a little bit. I just didn't think you wanted the whole school knowing. Yeah, yeah, Shelly's different. But I wanted to wait awhile... till you could talk to her. I'm sure you would have had something better to say."

He sighs, leaning back in his chair. Slowly, he meets Arthur's green eyes. "If I find a pen and paper somewhere, are you just gonna write about how much of a dick I've been?"

Arthur blinks noncommittally. It surprises him when Alfred delivers a heavy grin.

"You're still you." Alfred says after a moment. More to himself than to Arthur.

He reaches forward and throws his ball cap over Arthur's tousled blue hair. "Hold that thought." He says with a cracked smile at Arthur's nonplussed stare. He darts from the room, and Arthur feels no worry, certain of his return. See, even if Alfred's been spending more time staring at iPhone screens and hospital wallpaper, Arthur can't help but feel a teensy bit reassured. He doesn't know how he would react if Alfred stopped walking through that door.

Alfred comes back with a lobby pen and paper. He eases out the retractable tray and slips the pen into Arthur's thin fingers.

"Alright. Wait." Alfred says seriously, trapping Arthur's hand with his. "Things are going to have to change around here. So before you start kicking my ass like I deserve, I wanted you to know that. We're gunna talk and I'm gunna listen to you. Now, I give you permission to call me on all my shit. Best insults you can come up with. Okay. Go." He lets go of Arthur's hand.

Arthur just stares at him.

"Go on." Alfred waves. "I'm ready. Do your worst."

Arthur looks down at the paper.

"As filthy, as undignified, as sick, whatever you can think. I deserve it. And, one, two, three. Come at me!" Alfred wiggles his fingers.

Slowly, Arthur begins to write. He covers it with his hand, but Alfred gently moves it away.

 _I miss you._

Alfred's eyes widen in shock. A guilt unlike anything else mars his features and he laughs weakly. He takes Arthur's face in his hands, tipping his head downwards to kiss his forehead. When he pulls back, his blue eyes are wet, but he smiles. He reaches up and playfully adjusts the baseball cap on Arthur's head.

"I'll just have to… be here more, I guess."

0 0 0

"Your move." Alfred yawns widely, waving at the checkers board.

Arthur takes his nearest black piece and easily slays four of Alfred's pieces in a row.

"Balls!" Alfred exclaims in shock. "I didn't even see that."

Arthur rolls his eyes. He had wanted to play a more mentally challenging game like chess, but Alfred had only had Uno and Checkers in his game cabinet. He tips his head quickly backwards trying to stop the too big baseball cap from falling over his eyes again as he examines the board. Alfred grins and reaches to adjust it for him.

"What?" Alfred says at his disgruntled glare. "I could just, you know, take it off?"

Arthur dodges his hand this time, causing Alfred to chuckle. Alfred can't be there all the time. It's nice to have something of his when he's not around. And if anything, the hat is expensive enough and cool enough that Alfred will at least return because of it.

Alfred grins. "I shouldn't have put that on ya. Now I'm never gonna get it back, am I?" He laughs easily, stretching backwards.

Arthur waves at the checkers board on his lap, impatiently.

"Come on, Arthur," Alfred groans, throwing his head back. "You're creaming me. Can't we play something I'm good at?"

Arthur just taps the board irritably.

Alfred groans again, but flicks one of his pieces forward.

Arthur doesn't pretend he doesn't get a certain amount of joy in jumping four of Alfred's pieces all at once again. Alfred laughs in exasperation.

"I've got one man left, Art. Can't I surrender?"

Arthur decides to defy his laziness and reach for his paper and pen. _No. It's a ten to none streak. You'll just have to suffer this one._

Alfred groans. "Kill me now."

Arthur does. Gladly. He spins the last checker on his thumb, smirking. His pride fades somewhat when he notices Alfred looking at the door. He taps his tray sharply, earning Alfred's attention again.

 _Didn't you say you were staying until three?_

"Didn't you say you had to speak to the psychiatrist at two thirty?" Alfred raises his eyebrows pointedly.

Arthur glowers. _Like it's actually going to go anywhere._

Alfred sighs. They disagree on this.

"Yeah, well, if you would actually talk to him, maybe it would. What's so hard about it anyway? If there's nothing wrong, it shouldn't be hard, right?"

Arthur scowls. _You're trying to trick me into saying something is wrong._

"Right, because I'm such a trickster." Alfred snorts. "Come on, I'll stick around for the first half. At least answer some of his questions. I feel bad when you just sit here and stare."

 _It's better than what would come out of my mouth if I could-_

"Careful," Alfred puts a hand over his. "Wouldn't want the Thought Police to catch ya." He jerks his thumb towards the door, where Arthur can just hear his doctors conferring over the sound of the ventilator. He makes a grunting sound, causing Alfred to smile. Arthur's brow furrows. He plays with his pen for a moment.

 _Your smiles are different now._

"Different?" Alfred asks lightly. His soft blue eyes meet Arthur's, guarded. "How?"

 _You seem to try now._

An odd look crosses over Alfred's features. He glances out the window with a heavy sigh. "Arthur... you know how I feel about things. Whenever I try and talk about it, you get unreasonable. I'm sure... you can imagine that with the way I'm feeling right now, well," He chuckles heavily. "I have to try to smile."

 _What you're feeling is ridiculous. I'm fine._

"Yes, maybe." Alfred is starting to look bothered. He kneads his fists together. "That's how you feel, Arthur. You believe... you think..."

 _I know._

"But you don't," Alfred snaps, abruptly exasperated. He stands up and starts to pace. "Don't you think it's just slightly unfair that what you feel is valid, but what I feel is "ridiculous"?"

 _Hardly. I'm the one strapped to the bed with this damned tube snake._

Alfred closes his eyes and leans back against the wall. He does that a lot now. Like he's deliberating. Trying to make the best decision. Arthur doesn't quite know what decision he's trying to make, but he does it so often now, that he can't help missing the old reckless Alfred of before.

"You know you would beat me upside the head if I told you your opinion was ridiculous, right?" Alfred says gustily with his eyes still closed. He has to open them to read Arthur's answer.

Arthur shrugs noncommittally. _I don't have ridiculous opinions. That's an oxymoron._

"You're a something moron, alright." Alfred grumbles, smirking a bit at his scowl. "Could I pay you in marbles to listen to me?"

 _My time is worth much more._

"Because listening to me is so taxing?"

 _Oh! You're starting to get it. Wonderful._

Alfred finally laughs, running his fingers through his hair. He looks dual parts frustrated and amused. "You know, you are so mean, Artie. I don't know what to do with you sometimes." He laughs again, scrubbing a hand through his wild hair.

At his smile, Arthur feels somewhat gratified. He won't admit it, but recently he's been acting a little immature to get laughs from Alfred. Although it frustrates Alfred when he won't talk to the psychiatrist, he still can't help chuckling at Arthur's array of witty insults for aging bald men with feelings. Even now, he delights in retaining his pigheadness for the moments when Alfred will crack and joke with him again.

 _They might have to lock me up._

"God forbid the world be saved from your week-old humor." Alfred grins boyishly.

 _It's just cultured. I'm sorry you're too lost in butt humour to be able to appreciate it._

Alfred rolls his eyes. "I do not think butt jokes are funny."

 _What did one butt cheek say to the other?_

"Nooo, Arthur. Stop." Alfred covers his ears ridiculously, already starting to grin.

 _I'm writing on a piece of paper, you idiot. And you're still looking._

Alfred makes a goofy squeaking noise and covers his eyes.

Arthur waits.

Slowly, Alfred brings his hands down. The temptation is too much. Then, he groans. "Ugh, Arthur. I thought you would do something original with it."

 _I didn't have to. You're smiling._

"Am not!" But he quickly covers his mouth. His blue eyes give him away, crackling with amusement.

 _You're too easy._

"Am not!" Alfred squeaks indignantly through his palm before he gives up and laughs.

Arthur rolls his eyes, by now his go-to reaction for almost anything that comes out of Alfred's mouth.

"Oh come on! That's funny, Arthur! What did-"

 _I don't need you to tell it again!_ Arthur writes quickly, but Alfred is already plunging forward with the godawful joke.

"What did one butt cheek say to the other?" Alfred pauses in pregnant expectation. Audience participation is mandatory. It doesn't matter if said audience is in the culpable hands of hospital bureaucracy.

 _What?_ Arthur scrawls grouchily. Though it's all for show. His heart is warmer now and he almost feels normal.

"Together we can stop this shit!" Alfred busts up giggling. He is much too much a fan of potty humor.

 _I had hoped you would gain a bit of sophistication while I was away._

"Should have given me a reading list, am I right?" Alfred grins, taking his seat again. "Come on, you're easy too. If I made a joke about America, you would bust up."

 _Perhaps it's just funny to hear you tell it._

"It's good to laugh at yourself every once in awhile, Arthur," Alfred says with his nose in the air.

 _You say that, but you never tell the really good ones._

"Fine," Alfred rolls his eyes this time. "You know none of these are true."

 _That's a matter of opinion._

"It's a good thing your opinion's always wrong then, Mr. Oxyclean Moron."

 _I... Just tell the bloody joke._

Alfred smirks, but clears his throat. He leans forward excitably. No matter he's about to tell a joke about himself, Alfred loves telling jokes. He's very good at it too. Arthur would reckon one of his favorite things in the world is to listen to Alfred create a world. Whether it be for a joke or a story, he has a talent for immersion.

"So," Alfred begins matter-o-factly, "I had to go see my doctor today because I'm having an unusual problem. It's a bit embarrassing. Not something I would usually bring up at parties. I was starting to get concerned when after everything I tried it just wouldn't stop. So I walk into his office and I lean in close, and I say..." Here Alfred puts on a full-blown Bostonian accent. "'Doc, I've got a problem. Every time I finish masturbating, I sing the American national anthem.' The doctor waved me off. "Don't worry, a lot of wankers sing that."

Alfred grins so widely it must hurt and if only for his enthusiasm for his own joke, Arthur can't help but find him so endearingly funny.

 _Okay, that was pretty good._

"No, wait, I've got another one." Alfred inches forward eagerly, so that he's on the very last centimeter of his seat. "I'm American, and I'm sick of people saying America is the stupidest country in the world. Personally, I think Europe is the stupidest country..." He trails, bouncing up and down a bit. "Get it, Arthur?"

 _Yes, Alfred. You're beginning to irritate me._

Alfred smirks. "But I haven't even gotten to my jokes about England yet."

 _Which you won't be._

Alfred snickers. "Geez, sensitive. Okay, fine, you tell me a joke."

 _Alright..._ Arthur considers for a moment. _Knock Knock._

Alfred raises his eyebrows curiously. "Who's there?"

 _9/11_

Alfred squints suspiciously. "I'm not liking where this is going."

 _Just say the line._

"9/11 who?"

 _"You said you would never forget."_

"Woooooahh!" Alfred shouts boisterously, banging his fist on the side table. "Too soon, Arthur! Too soon!" Though, he's smiling so Arthur knows he's not really in trouble. "I can't believe you told that joke! There are just some things you don't touch, Artie. And that's one of them. Hot damn, you're gunna go to hell."

His obnoxious shouting abruptly receives another audience. Alfred looks towards the door in confusion to see what Arthur is staring at. A woman in a business suit and a clipboard stands commandingly in the entryway. She smiles tightly, adjusting her jacket.

Alfred turns back to Arthur with wide eyes. "That's the new psychiatrist. Should I be worried?"

Arthur rolls his eyes. If he was any gayer, they'd be having a unicorn rainbow festival. All the same, he glances over her skeptically. Her presence does make him a tad apprehensive.


	16. Chapter 16

**Hey guys! Sorry for the late update again. My sister qualified for State and I was out getting sunburned these past two days. :)**

 **Any reviews, follows, and faves much appreciated.**

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"So what's your name?"

"Alfred," Alfred volunteers brightly, not seeming the least bit uncomfortable as he answers the clipboard-clad psychiatrist.

She's taken a seat in one of the ancient, dustbag hospital chairs, one leg crossed neatly over the other. She exudes professional in a way that Arthur finds particularly disgusting, if secretly daunting. He wonders how it is that people come to confess their problems to therapists. A strange women he's never met before is hardly going to get much out of him.

Somehow they'd managed to rummage up a small whiteboard and Expo marker for Arthur. He finds it difficult to write on with all the tubes in the way. Of course, it doesn't really matter because he's already decided he's not participating. His obstinate silence (in more ways than one) has led the doctor unperturbed to turn on Alfred. As long as she's busy grilling Alfred, she won't bother him. Arthur is perfectly content with this new development.

"How do you know Arthur?" She asks, though something about the way she says it leads Arthur to believe that she already knows. He scowls inwardly. His theory that the doctors are all conspiring against him to get his money (Healthcare isn't free, you know!... at least not in America anyway.) is beginning to look more and more plausible. Also, the university (far from free as well) will be starting classes up again soon. Missing the first week will put him in a world of hurt. He's asked Alfred about it, but all he's gotten for his trouble are reassurances of his absolute genius. "He'll be fine!"

As becoming (and true) as those comments may be, he hasn't gotten where he is today by sitting on his ass. If they think a little hospital mandate is going to prevent Arthur Kirkland from returning to school, they've got another thing coming.

"He's my boyfriend," Alfred grins doggishly, reaching forward to slip his fingers between Arthur's playfully. "We met at a school thing."

"Ah." She smiles back at Alfred's boyish enthusiasm. "Do you attend the same school?"

"Oh, no!" Alfred laughs brightly. "I'm a culinary student down at the institute. He's actually in college. We met when his history class was doing a French food unit. My class got to prepare some dishes for them. It was very cool."

Arthur scowls at Alfred's eagerness to spill their life story. It's private, special. Not something he would entrust to the nodding, knowing glance of the therapist. Doesn't Alfred know that smile's fake?

"It sounds cool," She agrees genuinely. "So you want to be a chef someday?"

Arthur rolls his eyes. When he starts to write, even Alfred is taken by surprise.

 _No, he's just in culinary school wasting his money for the hell of it. For fuck's sake, of course he wants to be a chef._

Alfred flaps his mouth for a moment, cheeks reddening. "A-Arthur, don't be rude!" He glances at the doctor anxiously, but she hardly seems bothered.

"Feel free to join the conversation whenever you want to, Arthur." She says calmly.

Arthur scowls, erasing his writing with the side of his fist. _I'm not joining the conversation. If I'm forced to listen, I'd rather the stupid questions be kept to a minimum. It's the least you can do._

She reads his note, but other than that doesn't acknowledge that he said anything.

"Any particular kind of chef?" She asks Alfred warmly. "I'm sorry I don't know much about specialties and things."

"No, that's alright." Alfred beams, shifting up straighter. Finally, the chance to talk about something that he loves. Arthur feels an odd twinge of guilt. "I'm not exactly sure what kind of chef I want to be. I've kind of dabbled in a bit of everything. Someday I'd like to go to Japan and learn how to make authentic sushi and stuff. I also really enjoy making pastries, so I've thought about being a pastry chef. There's some really neat places in Paris and around the world that I think would be so awesome to go to. Our friend Francis-"

Arthur rolls his eyes in disbelief. _Friend really isn't the correct term._ He scribbles angrily without thinking. _Fuck-nosed frog fits the bill better._

Surprisingly, Alfred laughs. Even the therapist seems surprised by Alfred's reaction. Though it's a mild surprise- one you have to look for to see.

Alfred reaches up to tug on the bill of Arthur's (technically Alfred's) hat, grinning. "Oh you would say that. What is a fuck- nose exactly?"

 _It's an expression._ Arthur feels his heart race a bit as Alfred drops his hand from Arthur's hat to brush his cheek.

"Well, it's definitely your expression," Alfred chuckles. "Anyway," Alfred turns back to the therapist to continue, but he has to pause to laugh again. "Sorry," He shakes his head. "Sorry."

"No, no," She smiles back, something odd in her eye. "Do you and Arthur share a lot of the same friends?"

Arthur rolls his eyes. Did she miss the point of his whole fuck-nose comment?

"Some of them," Alfred runs his fingers through his hair. "I've got friends at culinary and he's got university friends. Since the campuses are close we see each other a lot."

"And you met at a school function?"

"Yeah, kinda," Alfred shrugs. "I was cooking for his class. Got to be head chef that day. Pretty neat."

"Very," She agrees. "So..." She taps her pen against the clipboard thoughtfully. "What's your favorite thing about Arthur?"

Alfred gives off a sort of nervous laugh. "Favorite thing?" He runs his fingers through his hair and laughs again. "That's a hard question." He glances at Arthur. "You aren't going to interrupt this time?"

 _It seems that this line of questioning is advantageous to me._

Alfred snorts, smiling softly. "When I read that, I read it with Spock's voice."

Arthur honestly doesn't have a reaction to that, so he just shakes his head.

"Well..." Alfred continues. "Geez, that's sort of hard to answer isn't it."

"For what reason?" The therapist murmurs, scrawling something on her clipboard.

"Uh, I don't know." Alfred shrugs uncomfortably. "Just is. I guess."

"Because there are so many things or no things?"

Alfred's eyes grow huge and he quickly shakes his head back and forth. "So many things! So many things! Of course, I can think of things that I like about him. I like him a lot."

"Then why don't you start there?" She looks up with something like confidence in her eyes. "Why do you like him a lot?"

"Er." Alfred shrugs, looking uncomfortably out the window. "I guess... because... he's... Arthur. I've never met anybody like him before. I guess I first noticed him because he was shorter than his friends..."

Arthur scowls, reaching for his marker. But the therapist's quick gaze stays his hand.

"But then... it was more talking to him. I was surprised by how confident he was. He said things exactly as they were, and I just... I don't know... It was different. He wasn't afraid to call me names or put me down when I was acting big-headed. Of course, he's not mean." Alfred says quickly. "Just difficult to touch sometimes. I never seem to know... when he's okay and when he's lying. It was definitely this that sort of first caught my attention. I wanted to know him because not many people seemed to. I thought he had to have an interesting point of view. And, hell, he did. He's so smart and so funny. And maybe you could see that by just looking at him, but when you get to know him... You see that he's so compassionate, that he doesn't like conflict, that he cares about his family, and that he'll listen to you when you have a problem. He hides a lot of that, though. I don't know if he's... embarrassed about it or wants to seem tough or whatever. But I think that's why I really like him. He takes care of his own... and sometimes at the cost of taking care of... of himself."

Alfred swallows heavily, looking down at his hands. "So I can't really pick a favorite thing. He's really loyal to me and what... what I have with him is special. Even if I tell other people, I feel like they won't really understand the feeling we have when we're together or how his favorite songs are my favorite songs. There are so many books and movies and stories that tell you what it's like to be in love. But I guess, when I look at it... none of them or all of them are true. It's not an experience I've ever felt or an experience that anyone else gets to feel. It's our experience."

He finishes still staring at his hands and he doesn't look up for a long time.

Arthur doesn't know how to feel about this information. It appears like stuff he's already known. Yet, hearing it from Alfred makes it so much more special. It's an odd sense of surety that fills his heart. He reaches forward as far as he can so that his fingers for a moment hang in space. Alfred sees and gives an odd sort of laugh, reaching to take Arthur's hand in his.

"Bet you'll kill me for being so gushy later. Don't think I didn't notice that look." Alfred teases gently, squeezing Arthur's fingers.

The therapist says nothing for a time. She seems to almost blend in with the wallpaper. Then, "So how do you feel about this, Alfred?"

She doesn't have to clarify what "this" means. Arthur's expression suddenly sours. No good thing can ever last for long.

Alfred's hand loosens in his as if to cement his feelings.

"Well, I don't know." Alfred says gruffly. "He knows I'm upset and he won't talk about it. I'm frustrated because I don't know what to do. I don't know... how to help him. He doesn't want help."

"Yes," She murmurs. "That can be very frustrating."

"Well, yeah," Alfred agrees sharply. "He doesn't seem to care that I'm scared about this. He doesn't seem like... like the person I knew before. I mean, sometimes it's there when we play checkers and pretend like... like we don't have this looming issue over our heads, but I can't stand it. After awhile, I have to get out of here or I'll... I'll do something so dumb and I'll regret it so much and... and he'll never let me in again!"

"What do you mean?" She asks quietly.

"It's like... like I said before." Alfred swallows heavily. "It takes awhile to gain his trust, to really get to know him. And... and I don't want to lose him. Even though..."

"Even though?"

"Even though it always hurts more the closer I get." Alfred says in barely a whisper. He stays silent for a moment. "Have you... have you ever heard the metaphor about... about porcupine people?"

Her brows furrow slightly. "No, I haven't."

"Well," Alfred gathers himself. "It's not hard. You know how porcupines have quills that are pointy and they're not that fun to touch? Porcupine people are like that. The closer you get the deeper you get stabbed, the more you bleed, the more you hurt. Mom always said the hardest people to love are the ones that don't know how to love back. And I'm not saying that about Arthur... It's just... It seems like the closer I get, the more burdens I see, and, well, the deeper the quills go."

"I'm sorry." The therapist says quietly, meeting Alfred's eyes. "That must be very difficult for you."

"It is what it is." Alfred frowns, blinking quickly. "It doesn't change the fact that I love him. And that I want him to trust me. I guess being in love isn't the right term. I like to think love is in the active tense, like how I would walk or swim or dance or cook. I love. Him, that is. Sometimes I don't feel like walking or swimming or dancing or cooking, but I do it anyway. Sometimes I don't feel like... loving, but I've.. I've decided that I'm not going to stop. The decision is made. No turning back. So even when I don't feel like it or... really more like when it hurts really badly, I still love him."

She smiles gently. "You're a very compassionate person, Alfred. When I look at you, I see someone that will stick it through till the end. I don't think there's a better person that Arthur could have with him right now."

Alfred blushes at her kind words, giving off a nervous laugh. "Well, I wouldn't say I'm a hero."

"You don't have to," She continues. "There'll be plenty of people to say it for you. Plus, if you say it yourself it does come across a bit big-headed." She winks.

Alfred laughs brightly. "Well, that's why I have Arthur. He'll keep me from donning the cape in public. In private, though, well that's another matter." He winks back at her. Causing Arthur to groan inwardly. He whacks Alfred with his hand, scowling. Enough with the sex jokes.

Still, he feels strangely subdued as he watches the therapist and Alfred converse over some other subjects. Even more so the contraption in his mouth isolates him. He stares down at the marker and erase board quietly. Wondering if he should even bother joining the conversation. Hearing Alfred's thoughts so bluntly has startled him.

Alfred's love for him is embarrassing, but also... something he can't deny feeling good about. He despises the therapist, but he thanks his lucky stars that she asked some of the questions that she did. Yet at the same time... is he really so difficult to love?

If it hurts Alfred to love him, he doesn't understand why anyone would ever want to. Why anyone would ever think to try.

There's something wrong with him. He's not sure what it is. The doctors would say it's that he doesn't eat. Francis would probably say it's his cold-in-the-center personality. But he thinks it's more than that. It's a culmination of things. Every mistake he's made, every wrong thing he's ever said to Alfred and the people that he loves, every failure and every slip up. He feels like he's a picture of his failures.

Some people, like Alfred, are brilliant stars. They mess up and blunder quite as much as the rest of them, but there's something about them. Their lots in life always fall together right. Alfred is a picture of his successes. Alfred's never had trouble being Alfred. Arthur... can't see much of a desirable reason to be Arthur.

Arthur has to be changed, resized, refitted. This part of him is too blunt. This part of him is too ugly. Some people like this part, but other people like that part. In fact, he isn't entirely sure when his life became merely a fragmented mirror of other's expectations. There's Arthur that studies and makes good grades. Then there's Arthur that parties and impresses other people. There's Arthur that takes care of Peter. And Arthur that listens to Shelly. There's Alfred's Arthur lost in a cycle of uncertainty and beginning to glitch. For such a vocal person, sometimes it's very hard to know what Alfred wants. There's Arthur that's stubborn. And Arthur that's old fashioned.

And all the while there's Arthur in the bathroom on his knees with his friend the Xanax bottle.

Now, he's chained to a hospital bed with all these varying degrees of self. There is no that Arthur and there is no this Arthur. There is him, Arthur, faced with the awful task of a gross combination of them all. A mutated combination of every way he's ever acted differently for the sake of someone else. A mutation of every word never said in the presence of his parents. A mutation that can't survive for long.

So as Alfred and the therapist continue talking, Arthur closes his eyes. It's brutally unfair really. If they knew he was ultimately going to meet his end doing what he was doing, why didn't they just let him?

0 0 0

"Arthur... hey..."

Arthur blinks groggily, feeling the weight of Alfred's hand on his face. He starts to fumble for his notebook, but Alfred's grip stays his fingers.

"Ssshh.. Just rest okay. You fell asleep." Alfred's soft smile is certainly a sight for sore eyes. He doesn't seem in a hurry to be gone, though it's obvious that the hospital has settled into the silent machine-like murmur of nighttime. The only light in his room is the small electric one hooked to the side of the wall.

"I'm sorry I stole your spotlight with the therapist today," Alfred murmurs. "She'll talk to you tomorrow."

Arthur wishes he could groan. It's never-ending.

Alfred must see something else in his eyes. He frowns. "Arthur," he says quietly. "You don't have to be afraid."

Arthur watches him warily.

"I'm serious." Alfred murmurs, brushing his thumb along Arthur's jawbone. "I promise I'm not going to go anywhere." He drops his hand to lay it gently against Arthur's heart. "And we'll figure all of this out."

Arthur looks down at Alfred's big hand, feeling his heart thud faster beneath it. You don't understand, he thinks. You don't understand. Arthur can feel his eyes start to water. I'm going to die.

"You're going to be okay," Alfred grins gently as if he can hear every word. "I'm never going to judge you. I don't want you to be afraid of that. And this..." He traces the breathing tube with his index finger. "This doesn't change anything between us. It doesn't change anything."

Arthur looks at him longingly and Alfred kisses him on the forehead. "It's okay to be weak in the night." He says softly.

And Arthur cries.

The silent hushes and the caressing touches are enough to bring his sore eyelids drooping down later. He is afraid. He is. He has been afraid since the moment he woke up in this hospital. He can't blame Alfred for not being there, but at the same time... It's nice to have someone to be brave, to be strong for him now.

Alfred kisses him on the forehead again, yawning. "You know, I miss falling sleep next to you," he says rather absently as he leans back, dropping his head against the wallpaper. From his spot in the musty hospital chair, he combs his fingers through Arthur's hair.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Arthur thinks wildly that maybe he'll be there like he says.

Again.

And again.

And again.


	17. Chapter 17

I'm sorry I have not been on recently. I got a new temporary job at a law firm for the summer, and it has been eating up all my time. Here is the chapter!

 _ **Hello all! I'm excited to get this chapter up, because soon we'll be focusing on a lot of the recovery process.**_ _ **Though much of this initially takes place in the hospital we'll slowly be moving outwards from there.**_

 **Info on Anorexia and Recovery:**

 **There's a basic trend with anorexia patients. (at least what I've experienced and for those who've been seriously hospitalized) And that's inpatient care (Technically what Arthur's in now, though not really because they're working on stabilizing him), then outpatient care, group therapy (not necessarily and often intermingled in the first two) and then it trickles as the patient gets better to where it's less doctor and more psychiatrist.**

 **1) Inpatient Care is going to focus largely on a couple of key things. One, realizing there's a problem. Two, admitting the problem. Three, beginning to implement a solution for the problem. This includes eating, eating regularly, eating healthily, and exploring why eating isn't a negative thing.**

 **2) Outpatient Care happens when a patient is stable enough to leave the hospital. Meaning they have a meal plan set up, usually an accountability partner(s) and phone numbers for any times of crisis, they still meet with the doctor (plus nutritionist, plus psychiatrist) REGULARLY. It depends on the patient how often this is. But most likely multiple times a week, if not every week day.**

 **3) Group Therapy is generally an outpatient support kind of thing. But can happen during inpatient care if the patient is well enough to get around.**

 **4) More of a gradation. Healthy weight or almost there. On the right track. Generally six months of good plan following, weight gain, and outlook. Less nutritionist/health doctor type visits and more psychotherapy (talking) This is to recognize triggers and help patients to deal with future stressers and feelings that cause relapse.**

 **OOOOkkay, with that said, enjoy my transition chapter into true recovery. :)**

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Arthur shifts restlessly in the single bed, irritable with all the pulls on his skin. There's always some sort of needle in his arm. The tube in his stomach is far from comfortable. It had come out last night and he'd woken to a marvelous pool of his own blood.

Alfred isn't coming in today. It's only for Alfred that he's been holding still during the doctor's exams and taking all of the treatment like a good little patient. Although, he isn't too worried as the majority of his time is spent counting the ceiling tiles.

It sounds silly. People come into hospitals because they are dying. They shouldn't really expect entertainment. Yet, there's not even a T.V. in his room. And Arthur would put some doubt on the whole "he's dying" part. He feels fine.

He wiggles his toes, feeling the slight twinge in his ankle. He had broken it falling from that tree. And he'd walked with it all the way to America. Fancy that. Adrenaline does a lot for Arthur Kirkland.

"Knock, knock." The voice draws Arthur from his flitting train of thought with a frown. It's disconcerting for people to interrupt him. Especially when his thoughts fly from things as mundane as Seattle humidity to the temporariness of his own existence.

The therapist, who is wont to show up whenever she so pleases, presses his usual whiteboard into his hands and he scrawls first thing, _It's kind of early to be bothering me, isn't it? I was sleeping._

She shakes her head, pulling up one of the chairs. "It might behoove you to realize that I do have eyes, Arthur. I can see that you weren't sleeping."

Arthur grumbles internally, but isn't as upset as he might have been. Maybe he can extend the therapist a rod of grace for the moment. He is very bored. Also with Alfred's absence, he's been looking for someone to be rid all this devil's energy on.

 _I sleep with my eyes open._ He writes seriously. _That's a condition_.

"Interesting," She intones, not sounding very interested. Alfred would have humored him. "What do you want to talk about today?"

Normally, Arthur ignores her and sits in moody silence. If Alfred is there, sometimes he'll come up with something to say. He doesn't like making Alfred feel uncomfortable. It always depresses Alfred afterwards if Arthur refuses to interact with the therapist.

An idea hits him, and he perks considerably. He'll "interact" with the therapist today (more or less) and then Alfred'll be in a really good mood next time he comes around. The interaction doesn't have to be meaningful.

 _Why is it that so many Americans are charmed by English accents?_

She reads his question and then rolls her eyes. "You act as if there are many Americans that are charmed by English accents."

Arthur raises his eyebrows, feeling himself smirk around the ventilator. _Don't pretend. I've seen your television programmes. It's always some ancient wizen old codger with the ugliest mug, but he has an English accent and bam! he's God's gift to America. Oh say can't you see?_

"Do you want an honest answer to that question?" She pauses for his nod, before continuing. "Most English people aren't going to be overawed about an American accent because of all the American movies and media. However since your country is so... small, it's more of a rarity in America to hear the accent. The media has started to pick up on that and you'll now see that a lot of Hollywood productions contain imported British actors. Americans associate the accent with high class and charm, whether they mean to or not. The favorite British TV shows around here revolve around 007 and Victorian style. That just sort of translates into making the accent suave and charming."

Arthur doesn't have a response for her, so he just writes: _I'm glad you've admitted it._

"Do you think Alfred likes your accent?" She asks him lightly, tapping her pen against her clipboard.

 _I don't know if he's mentioned it before._

"I'll bet he does." She uncaps her pen, recaps it. "Once they take the ventilator out, you should ask him."

Once again, Arthur doesn't really have a response. _Okay._

"Any other questions?"

 _When will I get out of here?_

"Once you're healthy." She answers.

 _What does being healthy constitute?_

"Being a healthy weight," She says. Arthur wrinkles his nose involuntarily.

She gives a small half smile. "Can you explain why that's so awful?"

 _I... I'm fine. That's all. Why fix something that isn't broken?_

She watches him until he becomes uncomfortable, like she knows he doesn't believe that.

 _I don't like to talk about this._ Arthur finally writes, feeling that it's the most honest thing he's ever told her.

"I know," She says quietly and she sounds like she really feels for him. He shifts restlessly.

 _If I tell you something... are you always going to tell Alfred?_

"Not if you don't want me to." She replies calmly, but doesn't push.

Arthur frowns at the whiteboard, feeling his heart beat faster. He grips it until his knuckles are white. _I hope Alfred likes my accent. I can't change that._

"I'm sure he does." She murmurs reassuringly. "He really likes you."

 _I suppose I could try to change it, but it would be hard. I would mess up a lot._

"You wouldn't need to." She shakes her head gently. "He wouldn't want you to change something like that."

He writes nothing for a long while, gripping the whiteboard even tighter.

Finally, she says. "There's lots of things you can't change."

He looks away, not wanting her to see how upset this is making him.

"But..." She continues softly. "There are also things that can change that don't need to change. Even if Alfred didn't like your accent, would you change it?"

 _I don't know._

"What do you mean by that?"

 _If it meant that he was going to leav-_

Arthur abruptly smears his writing away with his fist, scowling. _I don't know what I mean._ He writes in all capitals.

She doesn't really seem to read his writing, only watch his face. "Are you afraid that he's going to leave?"

Arthur refuses to answer that question, accenting his point by abruptly throwing the whiteboard to the ground. I want you to leave, he thinks angrily. And then feels a flush of embarrassment for his own childishness. He's thrown down the whiteboard and along with it his dignity. How is it that she always manages to get under his skin?

She bends down and carefully picks up his whiteboard. A long thin crack stretches from one side to the other. She doesn't hand it back to him, setting it by her chair.

"That's okay," She says calmly, eyes on her clipboard. "I'm sure he's afraid of the same thing sometimes."

Arthur blinks, opening and closing his fists. Yet, he can't speak and she continues.

"I want you to think about how differently he sees you as compared to how you see yourself. What is the probability that everything he believes about you isn't true?"

Arthur snaps his fingers, gaining her attention. She hands him the whiteboard again and he writes: _What is the probability that everything I believe about myself isn't true?_

"Now, that is the question." She murmurs, almost smiling. She stands, apparently through with him. "You're a smart guy, Arthur. If you believe everything about yourself can be changed, I would assume that probability is higher."

 _But I don't believe everything about me can be-_

But she has already started walking away and Arthur glares after her. She starts the argument, but never seems to want to finish it.

0 0 0

 _I had a real conversation with the therapist yesterday._

"You did?" Alfred's swallows his mouthful of popcorn roughly, pausing their movie with a flick of his greasy finger. He sets the iPad on Arthur's lap to wipe his hands on his jeans. "Fuck, I hope that comes off. This is Kiku's tablet."

Arthur rolls his eyes. He could honestly care less about the latest Marvel film, but Alfred's enthusiasm is relentless. Plus, it was rather nice of him to find an illegal download and watch it with Arthur instead of ditching him for the theater.

He shifts his notebook around and writes. _Yeah, I did. Now what are you going to give me for it?_

"Jeez, you're a greedy bastard, aren't you?" Alfred teases. "Let's see. In your current position, we could probably do everything but mouth stuff." He flicks Arthur's ventilator with a smirk.

Arthur's brows furrow. He's not sure if Alfred is serious or not.

Seeing Arthur's expression, Alfred busts up laughing. "Let's just watch the movie, alright?"

 _Well, you have to give me something. For each action an equal and opposit-_

"Opposite reaction. Yeah, yeah, I get it." Alfred gives him a playful push. "I've got an idea. Here. Scoot over."

Arthur still isn't that great at moving after the airport incident. But Alfred doesn't hesitate to gently shunt him over... And climb into the bed with him.

 _What are you doing!_ He writes in exasperation. It's probably his worst handwriting yet as Alfred bumps his elbow and sends his hand flying. _Ffuck, you made me write on the sheets!_

"Hold on." Alfred swings his arm around, carefully putting it behind Arthur's neck. "We'll find the sweet spot. Now, where did the iPad go?" He wriggles around until he finds it, and then settles back with his head next to Arthur's.

"Comfortable?" He says with a winsome grin.

Arthur glowers. _That was unnecessary._

"Was it though?" Alfred flips out one of the desk lamps so that the only light comes from the crack under his door.

Arthur feels like shouting in exasperation. Now, Alfred won't be able to see what he writes.

Alfred, however, seems to know exactly what he's thinking. "Before you despair. Wa la, memo pad." He holds up the iPad to Arthur's fingers gently.

 _You're still an idiot. How are we going to watch the movie?_

"We're not. Well, maybe later." Alfred kisses him affectionately on the head. "I'll wait till you're asleep."

Arthur has the sudden urge to yawn, but can't with the ventilator in. He's too tired to argue or even play fight with Alfred now. He rests his cheek on Alfred's chest. He hears and feels the steady glump of Alfred's heart beat. Alfred's ribcage lifts up and down as he breathes. Arthur feels that he hasn't been this close to Alfred in a long time.

 _Hey Alfred..._ He types lazily. _Do you have any stories for me?_

"Mmmmm..." Alfred's voice echoes under Arthur's ear. "Are you looking for stories that make me look dumb or stories that are just cool?"

 _Nah. Tell me a story where you saved the day._

"Oh good. I didn't really want to tell you my interesting experience with uni."

 _Oonii?_

"No, it's spelled like the first part of university, but you say it like 'oo' in cool. Do you know what it is?"

 _I'm afraid not._

"It's like sea urchin penis. It's really popular in the chef world."

 _Okay, well now you have to tell me the story._

"Damn it, Arthur," Alfred chuckles, kissing his head again. "I don't know. It's just stupid. We were cracking sea urchins open on like the fourth fucking day or something, and I had never heard of uni. Gilbert dared me to eat one raw."

 _Oh Alfred. That's... gross._

"No, no, no," Alfred laughs. "I'm not done. So I stick raw sea urchin guts in my mouth and Gilbert starts pissing himself. Our head chef comes around to see what's up. And boy is he furious. His face was all red. He just shouts, 'Jones, I don't care what you do in your free time. But you better get those damn 70 dollar gonads out of your mouth!'

"Well, all I hear is the word gonads and it suddenly clicks why Gilbert's having a riot. I panic and literally start choking. And the head chef thinks I'm kidding! So he just starts shouting at me all, 'Jones, you quit fucking around this instant. I don't care about your weird kinks. This is coming off of your tuition!'"

Alfred shakes his head, wiping his watery eyes. "You know I love most sushi, but anything with uni in it... bleh." He shudders.

 _So what happened?_ Arthur demands.

"Mathias slapped me on the back and I threw up. Good man." Alfred laughs again and then looks at Arthur seriously. "You know when you threw up at the school? Well, that's one of the reasons I didn't want you to feel bad. I did the exact same thing except with sea urchin gonads. So anything you've done, I've probably done it worse."

Alfred's laughter fades. His fingers ghost over Arthur's head gently. "I think," he murmurs after some silence. "When you get out and all, I ought to show you how much fun cooking is. I know you're not really into it, but I... I think you could like it."

Arthur doesn't answer, closing his eyes. If Alfred asks, he can't see himself saying no. He opens his eyes again, carefully grabbing hold of the iPad.

 _It's not cooking._ He tries to explain, feeling his heart beat faster. _It's not really food either._ He loses his courage, curling his fingers into a fist. Alfred wouldn't understand him.

"I know." Alfred says quietly. "I mean, I don't really know. But I guessed that much. Listen. I don't want you to feel... like I'm going to laugh at you if you're serious."

 _I know._ Arthur types.

"Good," Alfred breathes, though he's grown tense. In the bluish light of the iPad, Arthur can see that he is lost in his thoughts.

 _What are you thinking about?_

"What's for breakfast tomorrow." Alfred jokes, but his smile is forced.

Arthur swallows hard. _Please don't do that to me._

Alfred meets his green eyes. _Tell me the truth._

"I don't want to make you up-" Alfred begins, but falls off. He sighs, pressing his fingers to his forehead. "Just... soon they're going to take the ventilator out. And you're going to have to eat. I don't want to think about it because it's easy to pretend that moment won't come and that you'll be like you are right now for the rest of forever. But that's not going to happen. They're going to take it out and you're not... you won't... Well, gosh, I just don't know what you'll do."

Alfred gives a watery laugh. "And don't tell me to grow a pair, alright? You asked for the truth. That's what I was thinking about."

 _Why are you so worried about me all of a sudden?_

"All of a sudden?" Alfred says in disbelief. "I've been worried about you since the day I met you. I just didn't know what to do. At first, I thought I was imagining things. And then I thought it couldn't be that bad and now, well, now we're here. And I didn't know how to help you, so I didn't help you. I didn't... I didn't help you."

Arthur scowls, curling his fingers into a fist. His first reaction is to tell Alfred to stop treating him like a fucking flower. The melodrama is too much. But on his second thought, he stops himself from getting angry, if only because he knows Alfred means what he says. Deluded or not.

 _Alfred, I'll be fine._

Alfred's reaction is a bit different than before, whereas he'd blown up the last time Arthur had said that. He keeps his mouth shut, nods and turns on the Marvel movie again. He doesn't want to talk anymore.

0 0 0

It was an unpleasant experience. Arthur isn't sure if he was supposed to be awake during it or not. Its removal leaves his throat raw and tender and suddenly open to the elements.

His head spins uncomfortably- like no matter how much he breathes he can't get the right amount of air. It's disconcerting and uncomfortable.

He couldn't be more pleased.

With the return of his vocal cords, he knew he would have a lot to say. Yet with the riddance of the legendary tube, he finds himself at a loss for any words. The ventilator may be gone, but the situation hasn't changed at all.

With the way that he's handled around here (like thin spun glass too delicate to touch only to look at), he doesn't see himself being released any time soon. There's still one tube that- as far as he knows- will be staying for awhile.

Arthur hasn't developed good feelings towards the feeding tube. It reeks with a sense of punishment and confinement. The high courts of hospital authority have made their decision: They can't trust him. And as long as they feel that way, he's stuck here. That tube stays in.

Alfred is the first to actually address him. The doctors are only concerned about the state of his oxygen. Little nubs inserted in his nostrils ease his pain considerably. But they also remind him in a truly carnal way that he wouldn't make it on his own.

Alfred grins brightly. "So the mute can speak, eh? And I thought I was hot stuff. You're a miracle."

Arthur swallows roughly, fingering the covers in silence.

Alfred's smile fades a bit. "Come on, now, buddy." He insists, reaching out to capture one of Arthur's hands. "I've been positively dying to hear that accent."

Arthur flushes. "Well," He clears his throat hesitantly. The remaining doctors in the room pretend to consult their clipboards, but anyone could tell that they were listening. "Well, I can hardly change that, imbecile. Y-you had better like that." He stumbles coarsely over the words, clearing his throat again. He had never much cared for his voice anyway, but now he sounds like a chain smoker.

Alfred grins crookedly, making an odd humming noise, deep and pleased. "It's my very favorite thing to hear in the world." He reaches forward to gently take Arthur's chin. "But also I like it when you just shut up and I can do this."

Arthur realizes what he means just before he does it. His breath catches as Alfred's chapped lips brush his. It's particularly embarrassing to hear as the heart monitor accelerates right along with them.

Alfred pulls back with a grin, which turns into a grimace as Arthur whacks him none too gently in the bicep.

"Heey," Alfred whines. "What are you worried about? Them?"

"I thought you didn't want them to take the ventilator out." Arthur grumbles.

"I didn't say that." Alfred shakes his head, playing lightly with Arthur's fingertips. "I was just worried about the future. I still am." He adds thoughtfully, but then smiles.

"It's alright, though. You're sweet and strong and awesome and cute and adorable and-"

"Alfred," Arthur scowls again at the increasing pace of the heart monitor. But Alfred only seems to find it funnier, leaning forward daringly.

"And brave and gorgeous and hot (hot damn) and amazing and beautiful and-"

"Alfred!" Arthur snaps more insistently, but Alfred only leans closer, chuckling.

"And smart and brilliant and did I say cute?"

Alfred is so close to him now, that he's flat on his back against the bed. Alfred's nose is less than a centimeter away from his.

"Stop." Arthur says, but it's almost with a whine to his tone. He struggles not to give into a smile. Alfred hasn't seemed this happy in a long time. What is he so happy about?

"And you're mine." Alfred adds boyishly, pecking him once on the lips. Twice. Again. He drops his nose against Arthur's neck, causing it to tickle. "I don't want you going nowhere, you hear?" He murmurs, muffled under Arthur's jaw and the somewhat thundering sound of the heart monitor. "I always want you here with me. Never, never leave, Artie."

Arthur doesn't understand where he would go. Or really what Alfred is even talking about. But he gives himself to the moment and says, "... I love you, Alfred." It had been about time he said it, anyway.

Alfred pulls back in surprise. His mouth in the shape of a small 'o'. Arthur expects him to ask a ridiculous question like, "You mean it?"

But instead he laughs brightly like it's the best joke he's heard in the world. Not in a bad way, like he doesn't believe it. But in a good way, like he always wants to remember it.

"I love you, too, Arthur... my buddy, my boy," he croons softly, kissing Arthur on the lips again. "I love you too."

* * *

 **Heads up for those who read my stories: Am I The Best You've Ever Had is updated (at long last) and I am posting a USUK lawyer story. Thanks!**


	18. Chapter 18

**So I've been withering away supervising field hockey pre-season at my college and decided to get this up for y'all. Hopefully, I'll be more consistent about updating this thing. It is OLD now. I wrote it roughly two years ago and I'm tired of it. I appreciate all your support, but this thing is like a dinosaur writing-wise for me, haha. I beg of you to forgive any wonky descriptions, etc.**

 **Later today, I plan to post another chapter!**

 **Much love, doze**

* * *

"I wish I hadn't left my fuzzy s-socks in London." Arthur confides quietly, tipping his head into Alfred's. He can't control the shivers as they wrack through his body. It comes especially when he first wakes up and can't seem to get warm. Alfred never minds slipping up on the bed with him and rubbing his cold fingers or toes.

"There are a lot of things you seem to have left in London," Alfred teases lightly, referring to his set of Sci-Fi books.

"Oh belt up." Arthur mumbles, pushing away from him.

Alfred, who is getting much quicker at observation, sees the look on his face. "It's fine. I'm buying a new set. We can read the rest of it through together."

"I already finished." Arthur admits, reddening a bit. The books had reminded him so much of Alfred that he hadn't been able to put them down.

"Did you?" Alfred is impressed and then he smirks. "Looks like I have good taste."

"Tolerable taste."

"Terrific taste judging by the way you devoured them." Alfred laughs, butting Arthur's head gently with his own. "Don't worry we can start Game of Thrones next. Unless you've already finished that too?" He teases, causing Arthur to roll his eyes.

"You're stealing my turn, you selfish brat. You picked the first set. Now, I get to pick the next books we read."

Alfred throws his head back, groaning. "Come on. You're gonna pick some history book. I know it!"

"No, don't be silly. I'll pick something you'll like." Arthur murmurs affectionately which causes Alfred's eyes to widen in surprise. "Of course, I oughtn't to. Judging by your utter lack of education and manners." He continues hurriedly, "Reading you the entirety of the Domesday Book would certainly teach you a lesson."

Alfred is now smirking though, certain in his knowledge that Arthur is actually a giant softie. Arthur starts to defend his own general bad-temperedness, but Alfred interrupts him.

"What do you want to read, Arthur?" He asks with a soft smile. "I'm down with whatever."

"Oh, I don't know," Arthur breathes out, blushing. He can never be angry (not even pretend angry) when Alfred insists on being so nice. "I think you would like Terry Pratchett. I'm going to make the assumption that you've read Harry Potter."

"Only backwards and forwards three times." Alfred grins doggishly. "That and Bobby Pendragon everything. Have you heard of that?"

Arthur shakes his head.

"Then that's next. After your choice." Alfred pushes at him. "Move so I can lay down."

Arthur complains a bit for show, but soon finds himself comfortably settled against Alfred's chest. They have to be careful with his breathing tubes and the tube attached to the side of his stomach. The nurses aren't very privy to their new arrangement. Their complaint (that Arthur gets too excitable) luckily didn't hold water with the gray-haired buffoon of a doctor. All the same, there was the general talk of establishing visiting hours for Arthur's unflagging visitor. Alfred came rain or shine, late or early, whenever he could get away from school and work. Arthur doesn't like to think of the possibility of limiting Alfred's time with him. He doesn't foresee that helping in any way. Oddly enough, the therapist is on his side for this one. Though, it doesn't matter as she doesn't call the ultimate shot. And all that of course, with the approaching trial up ahead.

"So something of Terry Pratchett's then?" Alfred prompts him gently away from his thoughts. He brushes a finger along Arthur's cheek with a slight worried frown, like he can imagine where Arthur's thoughts were headed.

"Oh, I don't know if you're ready for that," Arthur murmurs kiddingly. "Have you... Have you read Narnia?"

"Actually no," Alfred concludes thoughtfully. "I've seen one of the movies I think. You wanna read that?"

"If you want to. It's quite an easy read. I think you would enjoy it."

Arthur glances over when Alfred doesn't say anything for a while.

I would," Alfred whispers, gently brushing away Arthur blue fringe. "Would you read it to me?"

"Of course, but... we'll start at the real beginning. With The Magician's Nephew." Arthur closes his eyes drawing up memories of his piping hot bedroom during summer. The time he spent hidden under the hanging shirts in his closet with his fingers weathering the pages of his favorite magical land.

"Alright," Alfred agrees amiably.

They fade into silence again.

"So..." Alfred says and it's the first word of a new age. At least in Arthur's mind. Rather like the dawning of an apocalypse. "What's on the menu for today?"

"...haven't told me..." Arthur mumbles, and he doesn't want to know. It's the first day they're making him eat, three days after the ventilator was removed. He touches his side where the feeding tube connects. He doesn't like it, but at this point he'd much rather just leave it in until Christ comes back.

"Yeah, it's probably hospital food." Alfred laughs uncomfortably, while Arthur avoids his eyes. "So... how are you... uh, feeling?"

"Splendid. I could just sing."

"Arrthurr," Alfred groans, but relaxes a little. He cocks his elbow, so that he can brush at Arthur's blue fringe.

In the silence, Arthur begins to stiffen again. Alfred just wants him to be transparent. The only problem with that is Arthur Kirkland is as opaque as they come. He knows that if astral projection into another physical form were somehow possible and he could win a million pounds if he got himself to confess his honest feelings, he wouldn't be able to do it.

"So try this on for size," Alfred says suddenly, "Should I stay or should I go?"

"Alfred, I was only kidding about the singing bit. I know you're not very good with sarcasm, but seriously."

"Nooo." Alfred howls overdramatically, making as if to punch him in the side. He sobers up quite quickly though. "I mean... do you want me around for lunch? Cuz I'll leave if it makes you more comfortable."

"Oh." Arthur says quietly. He fiddles with a fold in his hospital gown, brows crumpled. Will Alfred make it worse? Will it be harder? He hadn't thought of it that way. He used to have a pattern for eating. He would eat this food at this place at this time, and it had really bothered him when that was disturbed. Of course, that was awhile ago. He almost can't remember the time when he enjoyed going to that small cafe.

Alfred is expecting an answer that he doesn't have. He doesn't want to eat at all. It's hard to be concerned about whether it'll be easier to eat if Alfred is or isn't there. He doesn't want to eat.

Finally, he looks up from the diamond pattern of his hospital gown, distressed. He can't think of anything to say. Alfred frowns in confusion, but then, he tightens his hold around Arthur's shoulders and kisses him brightly on the forehead. "We'll just see, then. No big deal."

And Arthur, eventually, much later, plays gently with the tips of Alfred's fingers, relieved that Alfred seems to have found a new tactic besides pushing him.

0 0 0

Later that day, the therapist takes her regular chair and Alfred quickly stumbles from the bed, smoothing down his hair with a yawn. Of course, she knows what they do when no one's around, but at the very least they all keep up appearances. Arthur is willing himself not to think about the future and instead focuses on the minutiae. He's honestly so tired of having his racing heart broadcast to the room.

Alfred has taken the chair next to the therapist and is tiredly flipping through a recipe book he brought along with him. This reminds Arthur gut-churningly of university and his unwilling decision to take a leave of absence. Though the admissions people were very kind on the phone, he hates to say that he is too ill to come to class. Particularly because he doesn't believe it.

Alfred, having just woke up from a nap with Arthur, is sleepy-eyed and messy-haired. He traces the picture of some food item or other, memorizing the photo and then skimming the recipe. He closes his eyes, whispering to himself in concentration and counting on his fingers. Then, he smirks, grabs a red pen from his baggy athletic shorts, and marks something in the cookbook, like a professor catching an error in an honors student's thesis.

He really is funny to watch. His love for cooking is impossible to deny.

A soft knock at the door dashes the furtive smile straight from Arthur's lips.

"Come in," the therapist calls.

A young girl pops her head around with a tray of food and a wary smile. "This is Arthur's room?"

"Yes, it is. And you can go ahead and set the plate on his tray." The therapist taps the retractable blue tray connected to Arthur's bed.

The young girl slides the lone plate carefully onto his tray, gives him a shy grin, and then leaves the room. He sighs quietly.

It's a sandwich. Simple enough, he supposes. A bag of Lay's crisps and two or three strawberries. And a glass of chocolate milk. Alfred shifts loudly in his chair, silenced abruptly by the therapist's warning look.

"Arthur," she begins calmly. "Whenever you're ready, I want you to try and eat something for me. You don't have to eat all of it, but I'd like you to try."

Arthur glances anxiously at Alfred, who gives him a weak sort of smile, looking almost as nervous himself. He looks back down at his plate, feeling his hands start to quiver.

He swallows. Once again, he's sitting in bed with the tray table out, but this time there are none of Alfred's toys: no iPads or space ranger books. In fact, for once, that garish hunk of blue plastic is fulfilling its purpose in the world, a purpose it hasn't touched since Arthur Kirkland took up residency.

He imagines that his hands are growing spots and getting wrinkled, resting gently on either side of the tray. His chest caves in a little bit. A sudden bushy appearance trundles its way from his chin down to his stomach, eventually to rest in the eternally unchanging food. He taps his fingernails absently against the plastic, but carefully enough that he never has to feel the cold metal of the silverware.

If only he could live that long without touching a plate of food...

He finds himself speculating. (Really stalling. Searching. Searching for any possible way to stall.) It's not dying that he wants. Not really. He likes the feel of a beating heart alright. It's nice when his hand moves where he wants it to or his lungs breathe air without him having to think about it. His body works. (Or, at least it had before.)

The therapist tells him in her own subtle ways that his behavior is destructive. She attempts to appeal to his sense of compassion as she tells him that he's not just hurting himself, but other people as well. (Alfred remains uncited, but it's impossible to miss what she's getting at. What other people love him? And if they do, they certainly have a very unloving way of showing it...)

And perhaps he really doesn't care. That's possible. (It's a good enough reason for why no else seems to come by but Alfred.) But, see, that's what scares him the most- when all he feels is nothing when she tells him he's hurting Alfred. Doesn't he care about Alfred? Couldn't he eat for Alfred? Apparently not.

He is defective. Yes, he is. In an unfixable way. Sure, his body works (or did), but it's a vessel to something broken. He's selfish. And he's always going to be. It's what drives others away from him. (Along with his looks, his irritable manner, his lukewarm personality, his...)

So Alfred really shouldn't have been surprised. (Arthur has the lurking feeling that the therapist wasn't.)

"I can't." He says, but it catches in his throat and distorts so that nobody, not even himself understands.

"What did you say, Arthur?" She asks.

"I can't. I'm not going to. I won't. No puedo. Comprende?" He spits, clenching his fingers into his fists. The heart monitor beats wildly in the background, and the stress lands heavily right against his chest.

"Arthur..." She begins carefully, but he's having none of her trickery. She may use words to deceive other people, but certainly not him.

"Shut up! Didn't you hear me, you fucking whore?" He shouts, banging his fist against the tray and causing the glass to shake. His vision blurs with adrenaline. "I'm not going to!"

He's breathing like he's been attacked. They both watch him stupidly. Are they really too dumb to understand? He doesn't want to talk about this anymore. He doesn't want to eat! He's selfish and he'll get what he wants. Even if he has to throw a fit.

He opens his mouth again, but the therapist is already speaking. "Okay, Arthur. I understand. We understand."

Alfred looks a little shell-shocked. Arthur is usually mild-mannered. Even when he is upset, he tends to lay on a veneer of sarcasm rather than go straight for incoherent yelling.

Alfred glances at the therapist, then at Arthur uncertainly. "Hey Art..." He begins softly. When the therapist doesn't stop him, he continues. "I know this isn't very fun for you, and I'm sorry about that. But I know you don't mind eating fruit so much. Remember when I got you that fruit cup awhile ago? When I dropped you off at the airport? That wasn't so bad. Do you think... maybe... you could go for a couple strawberries? For me?" He whispers the last part hoarsely, kneading his fingers together.

Arthur swallows heavily, feeling his chest rise and fall. He meets Alfred's blue eyes cautiously. Alfred wants... well... maybe... He tries to gather his fragmented thoughts, looking back down at the source of his anxiety. Three ripe strawberries shine in the dingy hospital light. Fruit is mostly water, right? Or wait... celery? What is fruit then? Fruit is... fruit is... His brow furrows and then his will snaps back into place.

"Sugar." He says bitterly, but with an undeniable shudder. An overwhelming anger flows through him, so much that he can't even question it. "You're trying to get me to eat sugar!" He shouts at Alfred, losing his temper. He tries to shove the plate away, but his hands shake so badly that he ends up knocking chocolate milk all over himself.

"Don't touch me!" He snarls when Alfred jumps forward instinctively. "You sick, disgusting food fucker. You think I'm going to listen to someone with so little self control. Do you want me to paint you a picture of what you're going to look like in ten years? Fat! Fat as fuck, and here you are talking to me like I'm the bloody tosser! I'm not going to get fat, okay? There's nothing you can do! Get away from me!"

He feels a sudden wetness on his cheeks and realizes that his watering eyes have begun to overflow. Wow, he's never been s-so an-g-ry. Alfred is such a tr-aitor. W-wasn't Alfred s-supposed to be on h-his s-side?

"You're not going to get fat!" Alfred snaps abruptly, throwing his hands down and stomping his foot. Like a little boy throwing a tantrum. "You're like a fucking skeleton, can you see yourself? Do I need to get a mirror for you? Do I need to get a picture and glue it to your fucking eyeballs?"

"Alfred," the therapist grabs his arm sharply, but he jerks away.

"Why can't you eat one strawberry, huh?" He shouts. "After everything I've done, you can't eat one strawberry for me? I thought you were going to try and get better!"

"I was never sick, you fucking smart ass!" Arthur snarls, struggling to push the tray away from himself. "It's you that brought me here. It's you that fucking incarcerated me and ruined my uni, and my career and my Christmas!"

"Oh, I'm sorry for ruining your Christmas, Arthur." Alfred growls. "It was so stupid of me to take you to the hospital when your heart stopped beating. Next time, I'll just throw some Christmas lights around you and call it a fucking night." He kicks his chair backwards in frustration. "Do you ever give it a rest? Why is everything my fault?"

"I thought you were on my side!" Arthur shouts, horrified when his voice cracks. "I thought you understood. I'm sorry I was wrong." He grits his teeth, pushing the plate onto the floor. "Just go away."

"You are not doing this again! You always have to be the martyr!" Alfred exclaims, but this time the therapist has finally got a decent hold on him and is shoving him out the door. When they're both outside, she slams it. But Arthur can still hear their muffled voices.

"Alfred," She says sternly. "I told you that you would be allowed to stay if you could handle yourself."

"I was handling myself. He went all fuckjob crazy on me and started calling everyone fat. He's insane!"

"I told you not to respond this way," she continues harshly. "I'm not going to allow you in there anymore if you act like this."

"Fine then," Alfred laughs in exasperation. "According to him, I'll be too fat to fit through the door in ten years anyway."

She sighs. "Alfred, wait. Listen for a second. He doesn't mean that."

"Oh, thanks. That makes everything better."

"Alfred."

"Well, he said it! He wouldn't say it unless he thought it was a little bit true. He's so goddamn mean."

"No, he's trying to find a way out. Surely, you saw that. He just created a scene back there to get out of doing what he was supposed. Hasn't he ever done that before?"

"I don't know." Alfred says, but falls quiet. "I guess, there was a time where he threw food at his professor, but I just kinda laughed that off..." He groans. "Well, how does this work then? If he's just gonna blow up every time."

"It helps to understand that he's afraid." She says so quietly Arthur almost doesn't hear her.

"Afraid of being fat?" Alfred says incredulously.

"Partially, but it's more than that. He has a distorted perception of himself. He associates food with negativity. Physically negative, but also mentally. Psychologically, it reminds him of bad things in general."

"How?"

"I'm not sure. It's interesting how the mind works."

"Well, that's helpful." Alfred grumbles, but he also sounds thoughtful. Then his voice goes up nervously. "Sooo... he didn't mean those things?"

"I have a feeling he'll apologize to you in the morning." She says, and this time Arthur knows she is speaking loud enough for him to hear.

0 0 0

It surprises Arthur to see Alfred the next morning, big smile and all. After yesterday's debacle, he isn't sure he expected Alfred to return so soon, let alone so willingly. He'd been left in bed covered in chocolate milk for a good hour, while the therapist asked him if he felt his actions were necessary. They were necessary, actually. And he'd do it again without hesitation.

And yet. In spite of that. Alfred comes back this morning.

"Hey, Arthur," He says fondly, dropping his bag on the ground and drawing up a chair. "So your roots are starting to show and I thought it was time for a different color. How does green sound to you? I read reviews on the brand and it's gotten good ones." He pulls out a bottle of neon hair dye with an impish smile. "I also got some other colors because Sally's beauty store is the bomb. Check out this: Red, white and blue. I could totally pull that off, don't you think?"

Arthur swallows. "What are you so happy about?" He says gruffly. He's loathe to talk about the other day, but he can't believe Alfred's peppiness.

"Nothing," Alfred shrugs, smiling absently. "Now hair dye, which one? Pick."

Arthur considers pushing, but decides against it. If they can get away with not talking about it, than he's all for it. He accepts Alfred's grocery bag into his lap and begins looking through the different colored dyes.

"They're allowing us to do this?" He asks incredulously, flipping the bottle over to skim the instructions.

"Eh." Alfred jerks his shoulders. He smiles when Arthur looks at him in disbelief.

"I thought you were such a rule follower," Arthur murmurs, beginning to carefully line the different bottles up across his tray table.

"Oh, I'm a saint," Alfred says, causing Arthur to snort. "But I'm also on your side, which makes me a triple threat."

Arthur looks up with an odd expression. "You're an idiot. What's the third thing?"

"Third thing?"

"You're a triple threat, remember?"

"Ohhh, yeah, third thing is rugged good looks and the body of a greek god."

"Oh shut up," Arthur shakes his head, but smiles happily down at his array of dye bottles. "You're really going to let me dye your hair?"

"Yup." Alfred scoots to sit on the edge of his bed. "I'm kindof afraid, but I also trust you."

"Oh, you really shouldn't do that." Arthur murmurs, smirking.

"Heey, hey," Alfred holds up a warning finger. "You're going to have to look at me too, you know."

"Well, I have to mark you," Arthur says innocently, feeling his heart soar strangely. "After all, you're on my side now, aren't you?"

Alfred rolls his eyes, fishing out a bowl for the dye. "I was always on your side, Artie."


	19. Chapter 19

**Second chapter for today, as promised. (...wow, I actually fulfilled one of my update promises. A small miracle.)**

 **Love you all, doze**

* * *

Alfred's new red white and blue fringe, courtesy of Arthur, fits him remarkably well. The dye is clear and bright, and if a bit ridiculous, it at least manages to capture Alfred's personality pretty well. Arthur can also check off 'getting Alfred to dye his hair' from his bucket list.

He stands in the doorway today, looking devastatingly handsome and entirely out of Arthur's league. It doesn't help that the heart monitor records his every reaction to Alfred. If Alfred hears it anymore, he never acts like it. Arthur thinks this is preferable to facing up to another of the countless embarrassments that hospital life has afforded him. He hopes that Alfred understands why he's so clingy sometimes. His only prayer for normalcy lies in Alfred's ability to make him forget where he is.

Today, he's too tired to do much besides turn his head to look at Alfred. It's one of those days where he's almost so exhausted as to fall asleep with his eyes open. At least in the hospital, there's no real obligations. He doesn't have class or study group or whatever the hell to drag his beaten body to.

Alfred sees and smiles, dropping his bag in the corner and coming forward. He perches himself on the edge of Arthur's bed and reaches to brush at his newly died green fringe. "You just want to sleep today?" He murmurs compassionately.

How he still manages to feel compassionate is beyond Arthur. If anybody doesn't deserve it, it's certainly him.

"Maybe," He says, eyes fluttering closed as Alfred continues to stroke his head. "Will..." He clears his throat, keeping his eyes closed. "Will you be there today?"

"At lunch?" Alfred clarifies lightly.

"Yes."

"Do you not want me to be?"

Arthur pushes his eyes closed tighter. "I won't be very... pleasant."

"That's okay." Alfred murmurs.

"To you."

"What?"

"I won't be very pleasant to you."

Alfred is quiet for some time, before saying, "That doesn't mean I'll give up."

"O-Okay." Arthur breathes out, opening his eyes.

Alfred frowns, leaning forward to gently kiss him on the forehead. "You know, when you make me so mad that I just yell, and it seems like you've gone too far, I want you to think of it like this: Why would I yell?"

Arthur swallows uncomfortably. "Lord, Alfred, I don't know. I insulted you."

Alfred shrugs. "Maybe. But I seem really upset, don't I? Why is that?"

"Because..." Arthur shifts. "What I said was... was uncalled for, I know." He looks away, feeling his heart beat faster, and an annoying wave of emotion wets his eyes.

"Hey, hey, hey," Alfred says gently, taking Arthur's cheek in his palm and making him look. "I'm not searching for an apology. I just wanted you to think about it. I yell, because I'm upset. And I'm upset, because I care about the situation. I'm disappointed that things aren't going the way I want them to and that you aren't behaving the way I hoped you would."

"I'm sorry," Arthur whispers, clearing his throat quickly.

"No," Alfred almost laughs in exasperation. "I want you to take some reassurance from that, alright?" He leans back, roughing Arthur's hair. "I care about you so damn much, so I get upset. If I didn't care, then, what? I guess I would have already left, alright? I care about you, buddy."

Arthur swallows heavily and nods. "Alright."

"See, this is the kind of thing that I'm notoriously bad at." Alfred chuckles. "Patience. I'm not going to rush you, okay? You know this is important, and you're still figuring it out. I just want to help you out in any way I can."

Arthur nods again, returning to his new nervous habit of rubbing circles into his hospital gown. "I... I respect you for that, Alfred. But it's not," He breathes out quickly, "easy for me."

"I know, and that's okay." Alfred gives him a shrug. "Some things take time."

Arthur nods, opening and closing his fist. "Do you... do you think you could stay for lunch?"

"Of course," Alfred agrees easily.

"And do you think... you could try and talk to me like this? Because when everyone just looked at me, it... I might have gotten more anxious."

Alfred nods seriously, "Yeah, of course." He then grins goofily. "I'll act natural."

"You're a dweeb." Arthur rolls his eyes tiredly. "I'm going to sleep now."

"Good." Alfred continues to brush his hair. Unfortunately, when Arthur closes his eyes, he finds his mind still running at a million miles a minute.

There's this desire. When he's with Alfred like this. He wants to try and explain how he thinks to Alfred. He wants Alfred to understand him. As true as it is that Alfred will disagree, he still wants Alfred to know. He doesn't like hurting Alfred.

"I don't care that you're a chef." Arthur says softly. "That doesn't bother me. I like it when you're happy about something. I also don't think that you'll get fat. You exercise way more than I do anyway."

Alfred just continues to stroke his hair. When he doesn't react any other way, Arthur feels comfortable enough to continue.

"I... used to play football though. Not your kind, the real kind. And it used to be very important to me, and it's always been very important to my father. I remember times when I was six or seven, being awake at 5 a.m. out with him and James, just practicing. I wanted so badly to be as good as my brother. Of course," Arthur snorts dryly, "that was rather more of a pipe dream."

Alfred chuckles softly. "Boy, do I know that feeling. I used to want to be an astronaut so bad. I mean, now that I've found cooking, it doesn't bother me anymore. This was like in middle school and high school. I used to read and read and read all sorts of astronomy books and wake up in the middle of the night to see the different planets up in the sky. My mom would scold me cuz I got so many bug bites. I looked like I had chicken pox the next day sometimes." Alfred laughs again, catching Arthur's gaze with a slight smile.

"What happened?"

"Well," Alfred shrugs. "I got back my first chemistry test and then my first algebra test and then my first physics test. It all seemed so far away from that moment. No matter how I looked at it, I was never the best in my class." Alfred scratches his fingers along the covers absently. "They always tell the stories of people who weren't good at something at first and then they worked really hard and got amazing. It's discouraging. I guess I just had to realize that wasn't me."

Arthur nods quietly, shifting around onto his side. "I don't even like football anymore."

Alfred laughs again, throwing his feet up on the bed and leaning back in his chair. "I never liked physics."

"Did... did your parents ever get upset about your grades?"

Alfred wrinkles his nose. "Uh, yeah. I was like a C/D student, and after I realized that I sucked balls at every academic subject under the sun, I knew I wouldn't go to college. It didn't help that my brother was like straight 'A' McGee over there."

"I suppose it's good we aren't related."

"Hey!" Alfred moves his socked foot over to nudge Arthur's shoulder. "Now, you're just bragging. Anyway, I'm glad we're not related for many other reasons besides that." He leans forward to steal a kiss, grinning doggishly. "Are you going to dump me now that you know I'm stupid?"

"I already knew that to be honest." Arthur murmurs, finding his heart soar strangely at all of Alfred's larger than life facial expressions.

"Uh, rude!" Alfred sticks his tongue out kiddishly. He chuckles though, before trailing into quiet. "I guess it is sort of unfair. Here, I'm dating the total package and you get two plus two equals five guy over here."

Arthur rolls his eyes. There are more valuable traits than book smarts. In fact, Alfred is one of the best people he knows. Besides... Arthur's expression sobers, and he remembers what he had been trying to communicate to Alfred in the first place. He's certainly far shy of that 'total package' label.

"What?" Alfred murmurs gruffly. "Did I make you upset?"

Arthur shrugs. "I just disagree. That's all."

"About what?"

"Your whole last sentence, I think."

Alfred frowns, leaning his head back. "About what I called you or about what I called myself?"

"Both."

"Okay, I'm a little hard on myself." Alfred agrees. "But I'm kidding. I mean, if I were to really evaluate myself, the most important things about me have nothing to do with my sucky performance at school."

"Okay," Arthur agrees. "But you're wrong about me."

"Oh, I know I'm wrong about you. I'm easy on you." Alfred laughs, watching as Arthur's expression falls and he quickly tries to hide it. "But there's a reason for that too. I'm easy on you, because you're like level 100 boss difficult on yourself. I mean, think about it, Artie. You're so hard on yourself. You have to do good in school all while maintaining the perfect weight and the perfect image around professors and friends. You have to beat out your French rival and deal with your hardass father and still be nice to your cousin. You have to be tough, but not too mean or everybody will leave. You think you have to be perfect around me and say everything I want to hear. Well," Alfred laughs. "That ain't true. So yeah, I'm easy on you. But that's cause I know you, and I know you're always trying. You don't need another jackass to sit in judgment on your every little mistake. I'm just not that dude."

Arthur swallows nervously, massaging at his hot cheeks. "My life sounds like a pre-pubescent horror story according to you." He mutters.

"Yeah, I just forgot to mention your internal concerns over growing hair in new places and realizing that you like boys." Alfred sticks out his tongue cheekily, snickering.

Arthur rolls his eyes. "Nobody was surprised that I liked boys. I'm not sure whether that's a good thing or not."

"Hey, it's good for me." Alfred grins brightly. "There's always the chance I was giving a straight dude my number that French cooking day. And that would've been hella embarrassing."

Arthur snorts. "You're the straight one, between the two of us. Be honest." He reaches behind his pillow to pull out the rather rumpled flat-billed Seahawks ball cap Alfred had left with him the first day. "This is evidence enough."

"What? That I like sports?" Alfred shakes his head. "What are you trying to say? Lots of gay people like sports. You're so heteronormative, Arthur."

"No," Arthur continues, beginning to grin. "You've got those ridiculous Nike sandals, too. And you always wear socks with them. That has to be the straightest thing I've ever laid eyes on."

Alfred sticks out his lower lip, crossing his arms. "Hey! They're comfortable. You're the one who always wears hardass loafers. It's why you're gonna be wearing Dr. Scholls in a few years and you know it."

"I'm sorry I have a fashion sense."

"Oh, is that what you call it?" Alfred grins and Arthur hits him in the face with the ball cap.

"I thought you were sleepy." Alfred throws the ball cap on backwards with a shake of his head. "What happened?"

"I am sleepy." Arthur grouses. "You just won't leave me alone."

"Poor baby. Well, you're just going to have to get used to that, aren't ya?" Alfred ducks the pillow sent his way, laughing. "Hold on, my phone's buzzing." Arthur decks him with his last remaining pillow. "I said hold on!" Alfred shouts, grinning. "Now, you're just going to have to be uncomfortable till I get back, buddy."

He ducks out into the hallway with a chirpy, "You've got Alfie!"

Arthur groans. The stinking hospital bed is so uncomfortable without pillows. "Hurry up!" He calls impatiently. He's gotten used to having Alfred all to himself. It's irritating when others interject whatever the means. He's selfish with Alfred, as much as he can get away with.

"Yeah, no, no," Alfred says as he comes back into the room, tossing one of Arthur's pillows at his face. "I think he'd like that. We're not doing anything till later. Okay, cool. I'll see you then."

"Who was that?" Arthur asks warily, breathing heavily as he tries to wrestle himself into a good position. Alfred comes over to help him get the pillows in their proper places.

"Shelly," Alfred says. "She's gonna come by in an hour or so. I thought it'd be fun. She'll bring some board games and stuff."

"Oh." Arthur says, not bothering to hide his lack of enthusiasm.

"What? You don't want to see her?" Alfred asks, settling back into his chair. "She wants to see you."

Arthur shrugs. "I just feel like... she'll make everything... awkward." He blushes at his own honesty, suddenly feeling worried about Alfred's reaction. But Alfred only shrugs too.

"Nah, I don't think so." is all he says and then distracts Arthur with a comment about Francis.

It isn't too much later that Shelly arrives, laden with board games and card games. She smiles at him when she sees him, but he can't help but watch her skeptically. He remembers the first time she came by and the nightmare that had been. It's not easy to forget.

"Hi Arthur," She says. "I emptied out the dorm room game cupboard for this, so you pick first."

"I don't really want to play," He says flatly. She falters and he expects Alfred to give him a stink eye for being a jerk. But Alfred continues to surprise him.

"Is that a magic 8 ball, Shell?" He asks with wide blue eyes. "Because I'm feeling me some shit fortune telling up in here."

She tosses him the ball, falling to sit cross-legged beside him on the ground. Alfred gives it a shake with his eyes screwed closed ridiculously. "Will I have children?" He shouts and then hands the ball over to Shelly to look.

" _Don't count on it._ " She reads and then laughs at his ludicrously disappointed face. "Well, you are gay."

"Shut up," He mumbles. "You go."

She shakes the ball thoughtfully, "Will I graduate with honors?"

Alfred takes it from her and then guffahs goofily. " _My sources say no._ "

"The fuck," She grumbles, yanking the ball back from him. "This thing thinks it's funny."

Alfred smirks. "What? Worried?"

"No!"

"Alright, then. My turn." He takes it back shaking it over his shoulder in a goofy dance. "Will I get married in 5 years?"

Shelly takes the ball, turning it over for an answer. An odd look crosses her features and she smiles softly. " _Without a doubt._ "

"Damn." Alfred is particularly wide-eyed as if he actually believes the prophecy of a piece of plastic. "I better start getting ready."

"Is this thing accurate?" Shelly says, giving it a shake.

" _Most likely._ " Alfred reads. "Sounds fair."

She rolls her eyes.

"Am I the coolest motherfucker on this planet?" Alfred tries.

Shelly laughs, " _Very doubtful._ " Arthur nearly has to laugh too, because Alfred looks so disappointed.

"Hey, it didn't say no," Alfred points out, sprawling backwards on the floor. He catches Arthur's eye. Arthur tries to look away in time, but Alfred is already holding it out to him. "Want to try?"

"If I must." He grumbles, taking the large black ball. "Will I ever not be surrounded by idiots?"

"Hey!" Alfred squeaks indignantly from the floor.

Arthur snorts wryly. "It says: _Outlook not so good_."

"At least, it seems to value honesty." Shelly remarks with a shrug.

They continue to pass the magic 8 ball lazily among themselves. Arthur feels oddly like a college student again, driveling all his time away on pointless games with friends. He hadn't even realized time was passing, until there was a gentle knock on the door and his therapist pokes her head in. It feels like the bottom of his stomach just dropped away.

He looks at Alfred worriedly, clutching the 8 ball in his hands tightly. Alfred scrapes himself up off the floor with a loud yawn. He comes forward to throw the ball cap over Arthur's head, but at the same time, he leans down and murmurs, "Do you want her to leave?"

Arthur swallows, feeling guilty, but his thoughts jump to the horrors of pressure, pressure, pressure and awkward silence. Everyone staring at him while he can't eat. He nods jerkily. Alfred presses a kiss to his forehead and pulls back.

"Hey, Shell, Arthur's got an appointment with the therapist now. If you want you can come by later. I had fun." He smiles genuinely at her.

And she smiles easily back. "No problem. I had fun, too. It was nice seeing you, Arthur."

With his throat blocked up in anxiety, all he can do is nod. But it had been nice of her to come. And he hopes she will come again despite his attitude.

"Here, let me help you get these to the car." Alfred scoops up an armload of board games and disappears with Shelly around the corner. Arthur notices they've forgotten the magic 8 ball. He's holding it like a life saver to his chest, his knuckles an ugly blue color.

The therapist takes a seat in the silence. "That looked fun," she remarks with a smile. "Who was that girl?"

"A friend." Arthur manages, clearing his throat. His heart beats wildly. "She brought some games."

"That's nice of her."

"I was rude."

"I'm sure she understood." The therapist murmurs quietly. Arthur scowls.

"That's not an excuse."

The therapist says nothing.

Alfred soon returns with a bright smile and settles himself back in his spot. Rain flecks his shirt and his hair, and he shivers. "It's cold out there!" He exclaims.

Arthur only shrugs.

A minute later there's another knock at the door.

"Is this Arthur's room?"

"Yes. You can set the tray right there."

"Thank you."

Arthur stares hard at the wall, knowing that if he looks he'll lose it.

"It's a sandwich."

Alfred's voice makes him jump. "Peanut butter. I hope you're not allergic. There's some animal crackers and orange juice and a banana. That's all."

Arthur frowns, wringing his fingers together, glancing over at the plate and then at Alfred.

Alfred grins easily. And Arthur looks back at the food.

"I've..." He clears his throat, trying to keep his voice from shaking. "I've never had peanut butter."

"Really?" Alfred is surprised. "I used to have it in my lunch every day as a kid. What did you have for lunch at school?"

"Usually the school provided lunch," Arthur recalls quietly. "It was disgusting. Like meat patties or odd pizza or fish fingers."

Alfred laughs. "Yeah, my school was like that, too. Except my ma was the absolute best and always packed us lunches. The only thing I ever bought at school were the cookies, cuz they were the size of my hand!" He holds up his palm with an astonished grin.

Arthur nods. "My mum never bothered with school much. Plus, I'm the youngest. She would've forgotten by the time I came around anyway."

"Well, yeah, and your family's rich." Alfred teases lightly. "We couldn't afford to pay for school lunch every day."

"I don't understand why anybody would want to pay for it." Arthur grumbles, causing Alfred to laugh. He looks at the plate, breathing out heavily. "So... so did your school lunches look a lot like this?"

"Not as healthy, to be honest." Alfred chuckles. "But yeah, mostly. I had sandwiches like everyday. My mom would always pack some kind of fruit and we would try to pawn it off for something better. I drank Capri-Sun like nobody's business and had Fruit Rollups. Those are the best. I used to love animal crackers." Alfred reaches out to gently trace one of the crackers with a smile. "I always bit their heads off first. That way they wouldn't have to suffer."

Arthur snorts as he glances over his lunch again. "I'm assuming you had a dessert?"

"Twinkies all the way, baby!" Alfred grins. "Actually, I created this homemade recipe for Twinkies that's like a billion times better. I mean, if I'm going to eat unhealthy, it's gotta be worth it."

Arthur rolls his eyes, tracing the edge of his plastic plate. Alfred continues to babble on about school lunches, and for once his mindless chatter is extremely welcome. He doesn't seem to care all that much as Arthur picks up a few of the animal crackers, weighing them on his fingertips quietly. Alfred doesn't tense or even seem to notice. Alfred doesn't make a big deal.

Because...

It's not a big deal. It isn't. It's like a school lunch. Something he used to wolf down without even thinking about. This is the sort of thing Alfred used to have for lunch when he was a kid. Arthur gently pokes an impression into the sandwich, unwilling to admit that he is slightly curious what peanut butter on bread tastes like. Probably thick and nasty and too strong, but still.

Looking at the spread in front of him, he feels suddenly that he could just eat it. Couldn't he? It's not a big deal. Why is he worried? It's simple and small. Easy. He picks at the crust of the sandwich, frowning. The odd memory of James asking him how much he weighed on the football field suddenly pops up, and he feels self conscious. Had felt self conscious then too. Just hidden it.

Arthur slowly takes his hand away from the food, feeling tears begin to prick at his eyes. "Alfred," he interrupts with a gasp.

Alfred immediately stops talking, his brows furrowing in concern.

"I'm sorry." Arthur turns his head, choking a little. The tears start to glimmer on his cheeks. "I can't. I can't."

"Hey, hey, hey," Alfred croons gently. He takes Arthur's hands in his, rubbing small circles into them. "It's okay. Ssshh. Why are you crying? Was it something I said?"

Arthur shakes his head no.

"Was it something you thought about?"

Arthur swallows, nodding heavily.

"What were you thinking about?"

Arthur just shakes his head, feeling more tears drip down his face, splashing onto the tray table. Why is this so damn difficult? Can't Alfred just accept that he can't do it? He can't!

"I can't." He hisses weakly. "Stop. Please stop. I don't want to yell at you."

Alfred frowns, glancing uncertainly back at the therapist.

She finally speaks, "Arthur, are you sure you can't eat one bite?"

Arthur glowers through blurry eyes at the horrid, horrid plate in front of him. No, he can't eat one bite. He doesn't want to. He doesn't need to. He won't!

"I've got an idea." Alfred says hesitantly. "Let's get rid of this." He takes the plate and dumps it on the side table by the abandoned magic 8 ball. "Move this." He pushes the tray table out of the way and then slips up onto the bed. Arthur can't decide whether he wants Alfred or not, so he doesn't fight when Alfred pulls him close.

"Now," Alfred says and his voice is loud with Arthur's ear to his chest. "Forget about it? Okay. I'll eat it."

Surprisingly, the therapist doesn't object, but neither does she leave. And the silence becomes oppressive to Arthur quickly.

"Are-aren't you going to eat it?" He demands shakily, because he can't just forget about it.

"What should I eat first?" Alfred asks.

"T-the animal crackers."

So Alfred eats the animal crackers. One by one. And Arthur watches him.

"Next?"

"The sandwich."

From then on, he can smell the peanut butter on Alfred's breath.

"That leaves the banana." Alfred remarks, grabbing it and looking it over. "You know, I don't really like bananas that much."

"You don't have to eat it."

"What'll we do with it then?"

"Let it rot. I don't care."

"Hmm." Alfred bites his lip. "Well, maybe I can eat half of it. That way your room doesn't smell so bad when it starts rotting."

He unpeels it and takes a bite. Arthur watches him. Until he's finished half of the banana. He washes it down with a swig of orange juice. The unfinished banana sits on his chest near Arthur's nose. It smells strongly.

He hesitantly picks it up to move it somewhere else, but then realizes there isn't really a good place for it. There is no garbage bin in his room. "Can you eat the rest of it?" He asks Alfred. "I don't want it here."

"I can't eat it all by myself." Alfred says, which Arthur knows is utter bull.

"Yes, you can."

"Well, maybe I could. I don't want to, though."

Arthur scowls. "This isn't funny, Alfred."

Alfred raises his eyebrows. "What? I'm just being honest with you, Arthur. Why don't you eat it?"

"Because!"

"Why?" Alfred pushes, sounding almost unconcerned for the answer and really beginning to get on Arthur's nerves.

"You know why! It's why I'm here! Don't play games."

"I don't understand. Why are you here?"

Arthur falters. "B-because... because... I don't know! Ask them!"

"Well, you seemed to know a second ago."

"I don't know! I don't understand."

"Okay, then." Alfred shrugs. "Then why won't you eat the banana?"

"Stop it, Alfred!" he shouts, feeling his hands shake. "Stop antagonizing me!"

"Okay, I will." Alfred falls quiet, but the banana is still in Arthur's hand.

"Eat this. You said you would." Arthur shoves it forward.

"I didn't say that." Alfred says and almost grins. "Why don't you eat it?"

"Alfred, I swear to-"

"Wait." Alfred holds up a hand. "Don't get mad. Do you hear that?"

"What?" Arthur asks uneasily.

"It's the banana."

"Alfred, I'm going to smash this in your face."

"No, no, no." Alfred suppresses another grin. "Food fights are always after lunch."

"Why are you... what are you doing?" Arthur finally says in exasperation.

"I don't know." Alfred says and he sounds perfectly honest. Arthur looks at the banana in his hand, skeptically.

"What's it saying?"

"What?"

"The banana, you imbecile."

"Oh, it's saying that after me, it'll only get easier."

"Really? That's what it's saying?"

"Yep, it also says, 'I don't taste that bad. I'm easy on the gag reflex'."

"How thoughtful." Arthur swallows heavily.

Alfred shrugs, "It says thank you."

Arthur breathes out heavily, rolling his eyes. He pushes himself into a sitting position so that he can look down at Alfred. "Tell it I'm definitely going to puke."

"I did. It says use the force, Arthur."

"And when I puke, I'll definitely be aiming it in a certain direction."

Alfred wrinkles his nose. "It says rude."

Arthur rolls his eyes. And looks at the yellow monstrosity in his hand. And for once he can't take himself so seriously. He pushes back the peel and gently cleaves off a small piece with his teeth.

Alfred watches him lazily. "How is it?"

"Sweet." Arthur keeps it in his mouth for as long as he can before swallowing. As he feels the lump pass down his throat, he immediately regrets his decision. He gags a little, but then feels Alfred's large hand rub gently at the small of his back.

"It says you're doing great."

Arthur says nothing, reaching up with his other hand to wipe at his watering eyes. He pushes back the peel a little more and takes another bite. Alfred's warm hand rustles against his gown continuously and the only other sound is the soft hum of the heater vent.

His bites are so small that he feels it'll be an eternity before he finishes the thing. Each time he gags a little more. Alfred doesn't rush him, only murmurs quiet encouragement every once in awhile. Finally, Arthur stares at an empty peel. The astonished look on his face is enough to cause Alfred to chuckle.

"Now that's through," Alfred takes the peel from him and tosses it blindly over his shoulder. "Come here." He pulls Arthur into his arms. "We get to cuddle."

Arthur swallows heavily, smacking his lips. The taste is still heavy in his mouth, coating his tongue. He feels nauseated. "Can I... Can I have a drink of water?"

"Of course," Alfred leans over to fish a water bottle from his backpack. All the while, the therapist is taking silent notes. He hands it to Arthur, who sits up and takes small sips, trying to calm his racing heart. It's over now. Alfred's warm hand rubs back and forth, hot through his hospital gown. Uncontrollably, the tears gather again in his eyes.

Alfred doesn't laugh. Not that he ever has. He doesn't make fun. He just smiles sadly and says, "I'm so proud of you. You did such a good job, Arthur. Bananas are so healthy. You did nothing wrong."

After he's done drinking water, Alfred pulls him down and he curls against Alfred's chest, trying to stop crying. It's irrational. He's not even sure why he's crying. Alfred's warm hands rub along the ridges of his spine, all down his back. Every once in awhile, Alfred will kiss the top of his head. Slowly, the tears fade away. His stomach is upset, reminding him that there's food in it. And this is a horrible, horrible feeling. But Alfred is especially warm and cuddly and comforting. All he really wants to do is sleep.

"You're happy," he mumbles sleepily.

Alfred makes a deep humming noise. "I am."

Arthur searches himself for a moment. He doesn't know how he feels. He isn't angry with Alfred. He's a little bit angry at himself, a little bit frustrated, a little bit disgusted. But he's also a little bit calmer and maybe even a little bit more neutral. Not happy. But neutral.

"Take a nap," Alfred murmurs. "You deserve it. This stuff's hard work."

His optimism manages to draw out a small smile from Arthur at last, and he reaches up to touch Alfred's cheek, feeling inexpressibly warm. Alfred butts his head gently with a goofy smile. "Go to sleep," he insists.

It isn't long before he regrets his decision to make Alfred happy over himself.

0 0 0

He wakes to a paralyzing stabbing feeling in his midsection. The room is pitch black and outside the world is blanketed in night time sounds. For a second, he thinks the feeding tube has come out again and that he's going to need to call for help. But with another roll of his stomach, he knows immediately that it's internal. He quickly wraps his arms around his belly, tears leaping to his eyes in panic. The dark only heightens his fear as he begins to wheeze uncontrollably and the heart monitor speeds up.

Alfred who has fallen asleep beside him lifts his head groggily. "What's wrong, Art? Do you need to use the restroom?" Though Arthur can't see his face in the dark, he hears Alfred's tone change. "Arthur!" Alfred says worriedly. "What's wron-

But he doesn't exactly get that far. Arthur doubles over on him, vomiting. It's painful and there's nothing in him that can stop it. He doesn't want to stop it anyway. He just wants his stomach to stop hurting.

Alfred makes a strangled noise of surprise, fumbling for the call button. Then shouting aloud, "Can I get a nurse in here!"

"Hey," he turns back to Arthur. "Hey, it's alright. Breathe, buddy. Try to breathe."

But Arthur can't stop hyperventilating and he pukes again. It's watery and disgusting and he gags. And pukes again. Alfred pats him roughly on the back. "Nurse!"

Again. Again. And again. Until he's dry heaving. And it hurts so bad. Why won't his stomach stop clenching?

The nurses finally get there. He sees it in a haze. At some point, he can't puke anymore. His head thunders with a headache the size of the Atlantic. They drag him off to change. He follows numbly, glancing back one last time at Alfred, who is decorated in Arthur's bile and talking seriously with a nurse. His cheeks burn and he cries quietly to himself.

Once he gets back, there are new sheets on the bed and new pillows. The nurse hooks him up to the oxygen machine again and adjusts his feeding tube. It had exhausted him so much to walk to the bathroom that she'd let him use the wheelchair on the way back. He wants to ask where Alfred went, but at the same time, he's too scared.

He lays on his side, curled up with his knees to his chest, so that he can watch the door. The shape of the magic 8 ball on the side table obscures part of his view. When Alfred remains gone for awhile, he carefully sticks his hand out from the sanctuary of the covers, grabbing onto it. He frowns when he sees his own hand, because for just a second it looks absolutely foreign. The fingers are too skeletal and the skin too see through.

Arthur pushes away the confusion, drawing the magic 8 ball to himself. With the pain in his stomach fading, he's able to think a little more clearly. He gives the ball a gentle shake and whispers, "Will I always disappoint?"

"My reply is no."

Arthur jolts dropping the ball on the floor. Alfred stands in the doorway in a new pair of clothes with a tired smile. He approaches quietly and sits on the edge of the bed, brushing gently at Arthur's hair.

"You want to bet that's what it said?" Alfred murmurs, grinning softly.

Arthur shakes his head. "Th-there's not that great of probability."

Alfred leans down and picks it up. "Well, let's see." He reads it and nods stoically. "Yeah, you're right."

"What'd it say?" Arthur asks anyway.

Alfred holds it out for him to read. _No, definitely._


	20. Chapter 20

**Fun fact guys: This is as far as I got when I posted this story a year or so ago. We are officially entering new territory. And I promise this story will close soon. It is not fifty chapters or anything, haha.**

 **In this chapter, I talk about something called the points systems. I'm not a doctor. This is fiction and based on what helps me. It may be harmful for some people. Don't follow my prescriptions.**

 **The support for this story has been truly astounding. Thank you so much!**

* * *

The next few weeks find Arthur on a steady path through hell. Every day at exactly noon, there's another small meal for him to chip away at. Unlike the banana (or Alfred in all his goofiness) had told him, it does not get any easier. Some days he simply can't manage. They never listen so the food ends up on the floor, on himself, or occasionally on Alfred, thrown viciously in whatever direction he can manage. Other days, he'll nibble and it'll feel good if only because Alfred is so smiley, so bright.

The therapist has started seriously talking to him about controlling his body, keeping food down. He can't help it when his stomach rebels against him, or so he says. It hurts and it frightens him, and the only way to get it to stop is to get rid of the source. Alfred is always saying it'll get better the more he holds it down, but he's beginning to doubt that when every night it's the same routine. Even Alfred loses patience sometimes.

He doesn't blow up as much as he used to, but he's developed new ticks. Perhaps Alfred doesn't even realize that Arthur notices. At night, when Alfred has gotten puked on for the bazillionth time, he'll pat Arthur's back, help the nurses get him to the door and then he'll walk straight the opposite way down the hall.

Oh, he comes back.

It's not that.

It's the fact that he seems to develop the incapability of looking at Arthur at all. Arthur notices it especially when he needs Alfred to look at him. He wants to measure how upset Alfred is, how close to snapping. He wants to know if he'll need to perform in the eating department tomorrow, in order to make up for his latest disappointment. But Alfred is always looking pointedly somewhere else, at a nurse, at the wall, at the bed, at the therapist, and only when he's wiped all traces of being upset from his face does he look at Arthur again.

Arthur isn't stupid. He knows Alfred gets upset with him. Perhaps they've had a good streak. He's been able to eat something every day of the week. Yet it doesn't matter. Not if Arthur pukes it up every single time at night. Not if he won't be able to stop.

Frankly, that's what scares him. Not that he really sees the point in eating or gaining weight or anything. He's about resigned himself to this imprisonment. It's the idea that he can't control it. When he eats, he doesn't even have the strength or the will for that matter to hold it down. Even when he wants to.

As the days turn into weeks and winter falls to spring, Arthur feels he might as well just move into the hospital. Then, Alfred decides to mix things up.

"What does he need to do to get cleared?" Alfred demands of the therapist one day, still in his chef's uniform and smelling faintly of garlic.

"To get cleared?" She poses.

Alfred nods. "Yeah, how does he get out of the hospital? What are the goals? I mean, I know we've been talking about eating and then holding food down. But how much weight does he need to gain for you to let him leave?"

Arthur bristles a bit at his direct manner, finding the matter of discussing his weight has never quite lost its discomfort.

"Well," She sighs, glancing over him. "He won't be allowed to leave until he's on a schedule. Typically, we send anorexia patients home after they've developed the ability to keep the food schedule. Of course, he'd still be in out-patient care and would be required to weigh in with us. As for a release weight," She looks down at her notes. "A male of his height and age should weigh at least 130 pounds. The doctors and I agree that he would be at his healthiest around 140. In order to be released, he would have to be stable, which he isn't right now. I would feel comfortable releasing him if he weighed around 110 and were on the schedule. Also..." She trails and Arthur swallows nervously. "He would need an accountability partner. I don't doubt your aptitude, Alfred, but he couldn't live by himself."

Alfred shrugs easily. "Nah, I was gunna have him move in with me, anyway. My roomie's moving in with his girlfriend. I'll have the place to myself."

Arthur feels his heart stutter-step at that possibility. Imagine moving in with Alfred. He never would have thought he'd get a serious boyfriend this year. Alfred spots the look on his face and smirks teasingly.

"What? You want your own bed?"

"Why would I ever want that?" Arthur murmurs at his hands, causing Alfred to laugh.

"Alright, so this won't be too hard," Alfred says affectionately. He gently slips his fingers between Arthur's. "We've got the numbers now."

Arthur stares hard at his lap, feeling suddenly like he has tunnel vision. "Al-Alfred," His voice shakes. "Alfred... you don't know how much I weigh..."

He senses Alfred tense a little bit. The therapist is horribly silent as well. There are some things that are only at Arthur's disclosure. Alfred knows a lot, has been told a lot. But some things Arthur can't stand to mention. He doesn't mind having Alfred at most of his therapy sessions. He needs Alfred for those horrid eating experiences, but some things... he just can't bring himself to say.

"How much do you weigh?" Alfred finally murmurs, massaging small circles into the backs of Arthur's hands.

It's the age old question. One he's been avoiding for years now. He glances nervously upwards, meeting Alfred's ocean blue eyes. Perhaps it's silly. After all that Alfred's gone through with him. To worry, like this. But it isn't hard to imagine Alfred's negative reaction. He's so far away from where he needs to be. He's only gained a handful of pounds since he's been here. And for every one, he hates himself more. It's been pure drudgery and he speculates to himself that if Alfred really knew... if Alfred really knew how hopeless the whole situation was... that Alfred might just leave him to die.

He doesn't want to cry again. In fact, he's so tired of crying. If he ever gets out of here, he swears he'll never cry again.

"I don't want to tell you," He manages softly, looking away.

"Why?" Alfred murmurs. "You think you weigh too much?"

Arthur shakes his head reluctantly. "You'll get discouraged. You'll leave."

Alfred actually chuckles. "After every day we've spent in this crummy little room with its sucky air conditioning and its squeaky bed, you'd think I'd leave because of a number?" He squeezes Arthur's hands with a smile. "Nah, that wouldn't be right. I want to be here the day you get out."

Arthur snorts. "Who says I will?"

"I do." Alfred states matter-o-factly. "How could I doubt you when you've been trying so hard?" Alfred reaches up to rough his hair fondly. "We just need some concrete goals now. Something to make all that struggle worth it. Because you're gonna get out and then you're gonna be with me and we'll sleep in my bed with the windows open and Christmas music playing and we'll have the Christmas that we missed." He grinned. "After all, I haven't forgotten about your ruined Christmas, Arthur Kirkland. We'll have it if it's the middle of summer."

Arthur lets out a bark of a laugh, wondering what he had ever done to deserve Alfred. "You know that song... with the year in it..."

"Uh..." Alfred scratches his chin. "You'll have to be a bit more specific than that."

Arthur rolls his eyes, but begins to sing softly, "Springsteen, Madonna. Way before Nirvana. There was U2 and Blondie and..."

"Music still on MTV," Alfred joins in with boyish exuberance. Arthur fades off, but Alfred finishes the chorus for him. "Her two kids in high school. They tell her that she's uncool. Cuz she's still preoccupied with 19, 19, 1985."

Alfred laughs brightly. "Yeah I remember that song. Bowling for Soup, right? Was that on The Great Burrito Extortion Case or A Hangover You Don't Deserve? Man, that seems like such a long time ago. Why'd you bring it up?"

Arthur shrugs, picking at the blankets quietly. The therapist is making more notes. "You asked what I weighed," He says so softly he almost can't hear himself.

"You weigh 1,985 pounds?" Alfred says, sounding unamused.

Arthur rolls his eyes. "You're an idiot."

"What? You weigh 19 pounds?"

"Yeah, because I'm made of fucking mist, Alfred." Arthur scowls. "You have a brain, don't you?"

Alfred sighs. "Okay, I understand. 85, I get it."

There is silence in the room for some time. Arthur can feel himself growing anxious by the minute.

"So why did you feel the need to use a Bowling for Soup song to get that across?" Alfred suddenly asks, looking genuinely curious and vastly amused.

Arthur swallows hesitantly. "I don't know. I couldn't just say it."

Alfred grins. "You crack me up, goofball. Alright, let's tally. We need 110 points to get out of here."

"Points?" Arthur says incredulously.

"Sure, points." Alfred nods. "You're competitive, right?"

"I hardly think this is a game, Alfred."

"Well, let me finish first. We need 110 points. We have 85. Therefore," He counts on his fingers in concentration. "25! We need 25 more points to gain access to the next level."

Arthur only stares flatly.

"What? You've stolen me from my video games, recently." Alfred says defensively. "I think it's a great tactical plan."

"Yeah, if I were a footballer in some heinous video game." Arthur snaps irritably. "You can't be serious."

Alfred shrugs, growing quiet. "I'll drop it, if you want. I just think it's a more positive way to look at it. You have 85. You only need 25. It takes away a bit of the, well, weight, doesn't it?"

Arthur shrugs, swallowing. "I've only gained 3 pounds since I've been here, Alfred."

"Hey, each one's a victory," Alfred smiles. "Like in games, some are more difficult than others."

"You're so silly." Arthur sighs, but he is relieved that Alfred hasn't given up on sight.

"Don't you want to get out of here?" Alfred asks calmly. "Just think, all you have to do is meet this next goal and you can! It's possible. It'll be hard, but I'll be here and we'll move forward one step at a time."

"Maybe," Arthur says quietly.

He hears Alfred ask the therapist for a copy of the food calendar. He takes it with him when he leaves for work.

0 0 0

"Stacy's mom has got it going on. Stacy's mom has got-"

Arthur wakes to Alfred's breath washing over him, and he swats irritably. "What the hell are you singing?"

"Bowling for Soup, duh." Alfred grins. "Morning, sunshine."

"What are you doing here so early?"

"I wanted to come in before I have class." Alfred says. "I brought you something special."

"Wha..." Arthur forces himself into a sitting position, but his stomach drops when Alfred pulls out a tupperware dish. "Alfred," He protests quickly. "It's not time yet! You know that! The therapist won't be happy. I can't eat now. I-"

"Sshh." Alfred silences him. "It's special. Let me at least show it to you. I made it myself."

Alfred takes the lid off and holds it out brightly.

"A scone?" Arthur says.

"Yep, a lemon scone to be exact. Shelly said you used to get them all the time from the cafe. I went down there to taste test and see if I couldn't whip something up."

"That's... very thoughtful of you, Alfred. But I... I don't really want..." Arthur struggles to not offend him, but Alfred only laughs.

"That's okay, Arthur. I'm not going to get angry. In fact, I only have a suggestion."

"And what would that be?" Arthur asks warily. He watches in disbelief as Alfred sets the tupperware on his bed side table and stands. He really isn't going to force it.

"Just taste it." Alfred smiles confidently. "You don't have to eat it. Just nibble on it. Don't think about eating it. Just taste it, alright?"

Arthur looks down at his hands. "Alright." He can do that.

"Good." Alfred leans forward to kiss him on the forehead. "I'll see you later today."

Once Alfred is gone, Arthur brings the crumbly scone into his lap, curiously. He hasn't had one in such a long time. He knows what they're supposed to taste like. He finds himself oddly interested in whether Alfred was able to get the recipe right. He doesn't want to eat, but... maybe... he could taste it. Like Alfred said.

Arthur brings it to his mouth and nibbles off a small bit of the edge. The lemon taste is immediate and not unpleasant. It brings back strange memories, things he hasn't thought about in a long time. It reminds him of Whitby and home. Looking about as if to see if anyone is watching, he takes himself a proper bite.

Yes, Alfred has got it right. It melts in his mouth. In fact, it's probably one of the best scones he's ever had. Arthur carefully sets the little pastry back into the box, putting it on his nightstand. He lays on his side, watching it for awhile. Whenever the taste fades from his tongue, he carefully sits up and takes another bite. It doesn't really feel like eating.

There's no one around telling him what to do. The scone seems remarkably harmless and for once he can think about taste. When he finishes it, he expects to feel something akin to dread, but even that isn't as poignant as he expected. He lays back down, feeling warm. That wasn't so bad. Maybe Alfred does know what he's doing.

Later, Arthur's stomach hurts, in the way that's made him puke before. But he doesn't really want to ruin the scones for himself. If he pukes now, he'll get tired of the taste. How could he ever get tired of that taste?

So he rolls onto his other side, clenching his arms round himself. And tries to implement some of the therapist's calming tactics. It's slow and painful, but the rolling of his belly fades to a dull pulse. He can hardly believe it, but he feels a touch of exhilaration. He had always held that he could eat whenever he wanted to; he just never wanted to. But what with his advent in the hospital he realizes that might not be so true. To decide to do it himself. And to follow through. Arthur's spirit lifts a little. Alfred will be happy with him.

0 0 0

And Alfred is. Eating later that night while still a drudgery isn't so bad. Alfred fills his ears with mindless chatter, making him wish that all his food could be scones. For once, things seem to be going right. He finds himself warming to the idea of 25 points. 25 points to move in with Alfred. 25 points to leave this place behind. 25 points to be able to breathe without the oxygen machine. 25 points to be able to walk on his own. 25 points. Easy. He already has 85.

Of course, nothing is ever that easy. He pukes that night. But Alfred stays to love on him and remind him that some points are harder than others. They'd had a victory that day. He'd eaten of his own volition. He'd only been asked to taste. So he didn't cry too much that night and Alfred never looked away from him once.

0 0 0

It starts with scones in the morning. Every day a new kind, a different variation. At first, Arthur is as hesitant as always, but he begins to grow used to his morning routine. Alfred is always reminding him that he's in control. Not only that, but he's doing a good job. Now, he doesn't pick at them so much, finding that proper bites tend to satisfy that odd desire for taste over substance.

In the afternoons, Alfred has started bringing him little supplements. Things to go along with his lunch. At first, he had been skeptical. Why would he possibly want more food, his brain reminds him. But he's willing to push that aside when Alfred tempts his fancy with the bizarre. Oh, it always differs. Some days it's an exotic fruit he's never heard of. Alfred assures him they taste like grapes. Why doesn't he try? It's coming to the point where he can't help but try. It's only fruit after all.

He didn't used to have dinner either, but Alfred promises it's the perfect ending to a healthy day. Healthy. The word doesn't make him want to draw blood anymore. In fact, he wonders at Alfred's idea of healthy. He wonders what it means.

Dinner is a simple affair. Each night has a theme. They've done Mexican and Indian and Chinese. His servings are always pretty miniscule, but Alfred never complains or seems worried. Shelly comes by for dinner sometimes.

They sit on his hospital bed with plates of Alfred's Thai food. It's full of vegetables and Arthur doesn't mind vegetables so much. Alfred sets up his laptop and they have a real movie night. He leans against Alfred's chest when he's finished and Alfred kisses his head.

"I'm so proud of you," Alfred tells him, and it's almost like a dream to hear the rich satisfaction in his voice.

"Thanks," He says lamely.

And Alfred chuckles.

0 0 0

The next day, Alfred gently helps him from the hospital bed after his breakfast scone, keeping a steady arm around his waist as they lead him out into the hallway. His legs quiver uncontrollably, but with Alfred there he knows he won't end up on the floor. When they reach the scale, he feels the fear building so much that he has to close his eyes.

He doesn't want to weigh more. He doesn't want to know.

Alfred makes a shushing sound, kissing the top of his head. "Don't look, okay? Let me worry about it."

Arthur nods, breathing out. Alfred is always full of reasonable options. He can do that.

Alfred helps him step onto the scale and he waits, trembling.

He hears the scratch of the nurse's pen and feels Alfred's steadying hand hovering behind his back if he should fall. It feels like an eternity, but then Alfred suddenly lifts him off and sets him down.

"Alright," Alfred says. "Off to bed, captain. Lead the way!"

He isn't doing much leading, falling into Alfred's side breathing like he's run a marathon. Alfred only ruffles his hair, smiling fondly. "Almost there. You can make it."

Back in the safety of his bed, he tugs childishly at Alfred's shirt until Alfred gets up with him. Alfred's practiced hands place the little oxygen nubs back in his nostrils and turn on the tank.

"Guess what?" Alfred murmurs deeply, settling beside Arthur.

"What?"

"Only 12 points left."

"12?" Arthur says in disbelief, his heart thundering.

"I know. You're kicking ass, aren't you? I was surprised, too."

"Kicking ass?" Arthur says quickly, trying to hold onto their illusion. He needs Alfred to keep talking.

"Yeah," Alfred says seriously. "I'd say this week you've definitely defeated a couple boss levels. Your weapons are upgraded, and your health has almost doubled. Now, that's impressive. You might even be able to take on me soon."

"Because you're a world class warrior?" Arthur asks with a snort.

"Yeah, you wish you were on my level." Alfred teases in a low voice, leaning forward to kiss under Arthur's chin.

0 0 0

He hasn't exactly stopped throwing up his food, but it's no longer an every day occurrence. In fact, he hasn't since Monday and it's now Thursday. It's his longest streak yet. Unfortunately with his new quest for points comes some terrible discoveries.

He learns the meaning of the term water retention. It had nearly given him a heart attack when he woke up that morning with a bloated stomach the size of an early pregnancy. He panics, tells Alfred it was all for naught. Something terrible has happened to him and he can't, no, he won't eat today! Alfred is, at first, just as bewildered as he is. He sets the scone on the bedside table and sits on Arthur's bed, trying to calm him. Finally, when Arthur continues to all but shout and spit, Alfred takes him by the shoulders and drags him into a hug.

"Calm down. We'll talk to the doctor, alright? I'm sure they'll know what's up. This isn't your fault. Don't beat yourself up." He runs his fingers through Arthur's hair comfortingly.

The therapist comes in and weathers all of Arthur's shouting. Alfred only sits on the bed in silence, holding his hand and waiting for him to lose steam.

When he has to catch his breath, she interjects. "It's called edema, Arthur. It's not weight. It's fluid. It's going to hurt, but it's a normal process. It happens to a lot of people. Why don't you look it up on your phone, Alfred? We can read about it."

So they did. Of course, it doesn't make Arthur feel any better that his stomach looks like someone had inflated a balloon inside of it. The tension only seems to grow, causing him massive discomfort. It hurts to shift around in his bed. Even his fingers and toes have gotten thicker with it.

After she leaves, he reluctantly nibbles on the scone, while Alfred rubs at his leg underneath the blanket.

"You still look down," Alfred remarks.

"Well, of course," Arthur growls blackly. "Soon people will be asking me how many weeks along I am."

Alfred snickers, patting his knee. "Nah, don't be silly. This is a good thing."

Arthur raises his eyebrows incredulously. "How can you call this a good thing?"

"It means you're getting better. Didn't you catch that?" Alfred smiles at his blank stare. "Okay, I'll explain it. From what I understand, it's like when you twist your ankle and it swells. It's part of the healing process. When you were... not eating, you didn't provide fuel for all the cells in your body, so then your body couldn't replace them. This swelling is like all the old cells are retiring off to some snazzy beach house after a double shift. And new cells, the fresh ones, are taking their place. All the stuff in your body is getting rebuilt, redone, renovated. Right now, it might not feel so hot. You're under construction, but once it's done, you're going to feel so much better."

"Doesn't mean it has to look so fucking ugly," Arthur grumbles, causing Alfred to chuckle.

"It doesn't." Alfred murmurs. "I promise you still retain your insane level of cuteness."

Arthur rolls his eyes, but is pleased all the same when Alfred slips up onto the bed with him. Alfred is particularly careful not to jostle his stomach. Arthur supposes, though he feels stretched, bloated, and generally uncomfortable, that it helps to realize this doesn't have a direct correlation to eating. It's not like he freakishly gained 15 pounds in a night, even if it feels like it.

Alfred's calm attitude has been rubbing off on him more and more lately. He jolts when he feels Alfred's hand push against his stomach and he looks over in bewilderment, cheeks reddening.

Alfred laughs, rolling his eyes. "They said massaging helps, Arthur. Don't tell me it doesn't feel good. Now, all you need is some good old-fashioned TLC. In which I have recently gained my Ph.D."

Arthur grumbles, but can't find it in himself to ask Alfred to stop. As Alfred gently applies pressure, he can feel his eyes slipping closed again.

"Only 12 points," He mumbles sleepily and Alfred's warm chuckle lulls him to sleep.


	21. Chapter 21

**Hello guys! I hope you're all getting into the Christmas spirit :) Welcome to December! Here's an early advent gift.**

 **Much love, doze**

* * *

 _'"I always wanted you to admire my fasting," said the hunger artist. "But we do admire it," said the supervisor obligingly. "But you shouldn't admire it," said the hunger artist. "Well, then we don't admire it," said the supervisor, "But why shouldn't we admire it?" "Because I have to fast. I can't do anything else," said the hunger artist.'_

 **A Hunger Artist by Franz Kafka**

* * *

Arthur wakes groggily, unable to help glancing downwards. His stomach is still swollen rather hideously. He shifts, wincing at the way it feels. It freaks him out. He admits it, but Alfred's explanation helps a little bit. Usually, Arthur isn't inclined to be reasonable when it comes to these sorts of things. He doesn't like his stomach anymore than he likes his thighs, and if he spends too long looking... well, potentially all their progress will be lost. Even Alfred can't save his mind from that gutter.

Speaking of Alfred... Arthur slowly edges himself into a sitting position, glancing about his empty room. What time is it?

The buffoon is always here in the mornings. There is no tupperware on his bedside table yet, so Arthur hasn't missed him. Alfred had given him a cherry pomegranate scone the other day, and Arthur had teased him that he should give it up because he was officially running out of ideas. (Needless to say the scone had been delicious, and Arthur had wondered how the world went round without such things as cherry pomegranate scones.)

It's nice to be able to tell Alfred truthfully that his cooking is good. The lies of before had been easy to say, but Arthur can put a bit more gusto behind his compliments now. Alfred's eyes light up whenever Arthur says he liked this or that about Alfred's food. For once in his life, Arthur feels in a state to appreciate it. He swallows, noting dryly that his mouth has started to water. Previously, he'd forgotten it's even a thing, to like the food he eats.

Of course, as much as Alfred solves problems, he creates them. Arthur can't bring himself to touch the hospital food anymore. Not for a million dollars. Now that his tastebuds seem to have resurfaced he can't bear the sticky preservative texture of the load of crap they give him. Alfred doesn't mind, though. It makes him happy to be helping. Making all of the food, all of the time.

Arthur leans his head back against the pillow. He can hear voices in the hall. Who is Alfred talking to?

"I'd have to miss work," Alfred's muffled voice meets his ears sounding uncertain. "Of course, I don't mind. Are you sure they're-

"This evening. In a few hours."

Arthur frowns when he recognizes the therapist's voice. She isn't supposed to visit him until later.

"Does he-

"No." The therapist interrupts, causing Arthur to scowl. He can't determine what they're talking about. She must know that they're close enough to the room for him to hear, so she's being cryptic.

"Are you going to tell him?" Alfred says after a few moments of silence. He sounds anxious now. Arthur's heart beats a little faster. He closes his eyes trying to listen better.

"That's where I'm headed," She says brightly. "I think it will help that you're there, Alfred. I'm not sure how he'll react. He hasn't spoken much about them."

"No," Alfred agrees softly. "I don't think he likes to talk about it. Are you sure this is a good idea? I mean, the way he came back was so much worse than-

"I don't have any say in it, Alfred. Only Arthur does. If he chooses, he doesn't have to see them."

They say something else, but Arthur can't hear it. Soon after, Alfred trots in brightly with the familiar tupperware container in hand. He's wearing athletic shorts again with what looks like a Sesame Street hoodie. His Nikes are violently colored enough to create a glare on the tile floor. Of course, they're nothing to match the brilliance of his smile. Backwards baseball cap, flyaway fringe, and shaving cuts all on the underside of his chin. Alfred.

Arthur can't help smiling. Even as he sees the therapist enter behind Alfred.

"What flavor today?" he asks, wishing that she wasn't here. It's always easier on his own. Despite his progress, they still don't completely trust him yet.

"Guess," Alfred chirps, plopping down on the edge of his bed. He hands the container to Arthur, who opens it.

Arthur picks it up, giving it a cautious sniff. "Raspberry?"

"Keep going." Alfred grins, settling himself more comfortably on the bed, swinging an arm over Arthur's shoulders. Usually, he has to duck out, but it seems he'll be staying today.

"Something orange..." Arthur frowns. "Your combinations are getting weirder and weirder. I don't know if I trust this. Raspberry and orange?"

"Not orange." Alfred smirks.

"Clementine?"

"Nope." Alfred pops the 'p' with his lips.

"Err... what's the other one? Tangelo?"

Alfred snorts. "Do you give up?"

"Never," Arthur scoffs, raising the thing to his lips and taking a small bite. He has nowhere near Alfred's talent for tasting ingredients, but he's pretty sure he can get this one. "Mango?"

Alfred drops his head in defeat. "You got me. How is it?"

There's that faint note of worry, and it makes Arthur smile. "Horrid."

Alfred flinches, biting his lip. "Yeah... I thought it was too far, too."

"Well, you fell hard from glory, Alfred. So many perfect days, and now this." Arthur says in pretend disappointment, wondering how long it will take Alfred to realize that this scone is as delicious as the rest. "I don't think I can even finish this." He catches the therapist's eye, and she shakes her head in exasperation.

"You're a giant tease, Arthur Kirkland," She quotes Shelly verbatim probably without realizing it.

Alfred's head snaps up and he gives Arthur a shove in the shoulder. Arthur only grins ruefully, taking another bite.

"He's not a tease. He's just mean." Alfred growls. "You really had me going there."

Arthur rolls his eyes, setting the scone down as if it's made of glass. "Why? I've done that I don't know how many times. It's not my fault you always fall for it. Clearly, there's something wrong with your brain."

"Clearly," Alfred chirps, leaning forward to kiss him on the cheek. "Well? How's it really?"

"Good," Arthur says, for some reason reluctant to have the therapist see him enjoy food. By now, they all must think it out of character. Just last week, he'd thrown his sandwich at the wall.

Alfred opens his mouth to push for more, but understanding flickers in the depths of his blue eyes.

Taking her cue, the therapist steps forward. Arthur focuses on the scone, certain that this will be a load of bad news. She never comes to talk to him this early in the morning.

"I know we haven't discussed this much," she murmurs. He can feel her eyes on him, steady and unwavering, measuring his reaction. He swallows a lump in his throat nearly gagging up his scone. Can't she tell it makes it worse when she draws it out like this? "Your-

"What?" Arthur interrupts tersely. "They've changed my healthy weight to two hundred pounds and you're here to pronounce I'm stuck in this godforsaken, drafty American hospital for the rest of my goddamn life? No wait, I've got a better one," he spits, "Since I'm officially mentally ill, the state has decided to keep me in captivity because who knows what I might fucking-

"Arthur," Alfred interrupts this time, his voice quiet. Arthur notices he's crushed the scone to bits in his fist. So much for raspberry mango.

"Nothing's changed," she pronounces calmly. "Not if you don't want it to. Your family have come from England to visit you. They had wanted to come earlier, but your father had to find someone to look after his work."

"My..." Arthur's mind reels for a minute as he tries to make sense of her words. Not so much as a phone call from them in more than a month. Of course, he knew that they knew. He didn't even want to think about his growing hospital bill. The one that they were undoubtedly paying. Come to think of it, it was a wonder they hadn't had him shipped back to England in a crate or something.

He closes his mouth, turning his gaze to the demolished scone, setting to the task of picking out the raspberries from the mango pieces. He almost doesn't even hear the heart monitor anymore as its regular noises speed up. Alfred shifts anxiously.

"You don't have to visit with them, Arthur," the therapist continues after a few silent minutes. "It's a complex situation. I think they would very much like to visit with you, but you can decide not to see them. Just like you decided to include Alfred."

Arthur glances up at Alfred's name, unable to help searching out his blue eyes. Wondering what Alfred thinks he should do.

Alfred crinkles his nose, sticking his tongue out teasingly. "What're you looking at me for? You wanna kick me out, almighty Arthur? Didn't realize how powerful you were, did ya? Don't let it go to your head."

Alfred reaches forward to ruff his hair, and he growls in the back of his throat. "I can allow you to come, but I can't make you stay," he grumbles, wincing when his voice cracks.

Alfred snickers, reading the warning signs like a children's book. "Sure, Arthur, you say that. But what would I do without your godawful humor and your cheery disposition?"

He looks up incredulously, and Alfred smiles. "Cheery disposition?"

"Maybe that's not the right term," Alfred allows, still beaming.

"Maybe? Yeah, I'd say maybe not. It's like you don't even know me at all."

Alfred shrugs. "Well, you always brighten up my day. How else was I supposed to describe you, grouchy McGee?"

Arthur scowls as his face flushes red and his heart beats faster. Why does Alfred have to be such an ever-living sap? And he had lied before. Alfred is surely the person that knows him the best. "My family," he says, feeling like the word is completely foreign to him. "Which... I mean, who's coming?"

Alfred looks over at the therapist, who frowns. "I believe your mother and father are coming. And I think one of your brothers."

"Which one?" Arthur presses, not really certain that it matters.

"James?" She says and Arthur nods.

"That's amazing they were able to drag him away. He has practice all the time."

"Practice?" Alfred asks curiously.

"He's the brother right above me." Arthur says. "I told you about him. He plays professional football."

"Oh yeah, that is so awesome!" Alfred crows boyishly.

Arthur rolls his eyes. "He's a dickhead, but he works hard enough."

Alfred tilts his head to the side with just the trace of a smile. "So you really like him then?"

Arthur flushes. "What part of he's a dickhead did you not understand?"

Alfred just shakes his head, capturing Arthur's hand with his. "So are you okay with them visiting?"

Arthur pushes down the lump in his throat, tracing Alfred's knuckles with his thumb. "Not really. I don't talk to them much anymore. Last summer, I didn't go home either. Besides last Christmas, I haven't been home in more than two years. It just... It seems like a shame to refuse them if they've already flown all the way here. I wouldn't live to hear it down, I'm sure."

Alfred bites his lip. "I'm not gonna push you either way, but do you want to hear what I think?"

"Since when have I ever wanted to hear what you think, Alfred?"

Alfred rolls his eyes, "I think you should at least see them once. If they throw a fuss about it, you can have the therapist explain why you don't want to see them again. No pressure."

No pressure. Arthur almost rolls his eyes again. Alfred has never met his parents before. For some reason, he highly doubts it'll play out well for him if he refuses to let them visit. He has no idea what they think about his current... condition. His heart seizes up at the thought of having _that_ discussion with them. He'd barely survived having _that_ discussion with Alfred. He'd much rather "get well" on his own without their interfering noses in it.

Not to mention the last they had seen of him was a hysterical mess who jumped out the second story window for freedom. Arthur flinches.

"I think I'll see them," he says heavily, finding that they're the hardest words he's said in awhile. James shouldn't be too taxing, but his parents. _His parents._ It's a crime scene waiting to happen.

"Alright," the therapist says. "I'll let them know. They'll probably be here around seven this evening." She glances at Alfred, who bobs his head.

"Yeah, and I can get off work to-

"No," Arthur interrupts, his voice hard as stone. "I don't want you there. Don't come."

Alfred blinks, looking shocked. It's true. There's never been a moment that Arthur hasn't wanted him around. Until now. "Wha- why?" Alfred blurts, ignoring the therapist's warning look. In retrospect, Arthur probably could have been kinder about it, but...

"Because." Arthur says icily. Yes, he knows Alfred wants to meet his family, but he's not going to. He won't let his family ruin this for them.

"Are you serious?" Alfred asks flatly.

"Yes, I am. You don't have an all-access pass to every area of my life, Alfred. Quit acting surprised."

Alfred grits his teeth, abruptly letting go of Arthur's hand to stand up. Alfred is angry. It's the first time in awhile that Arthur's antics have cracked his good-natured shell. It's a little different, though. Alfred seems to realize that he doesn't actually have a valid reason to be angry. He doesn't like being excluded, but it's no reason to blow his top.

He dithers for a moment, scowling. "I thought you wanted to have a relationship."

Arthur blinks. "I do. We have one."

"Not a really great one then," Alfred laughs dismissively.

He has no idea how much those words hurt.

Arthur feels his chest start to tighten, like a resurrection of his old panic. Just when he had grown complacent. Just when he began to believe Alfred would never leave.

He fights to keep his emotions off his face, rolls his eyes. "Thank you, Captain Obvious. Been stuck with me watching hospital television for a month now, and you only just realized how much our relationship sucks?"

Alfred's blue eyes flare. "I've been trying to get my family to visit me for the past few _months_ so they could meet you," he says in a hard voice. "We get this opportunity and you won't even let me say hi?"

"I don't want you to meet them, Alfred." Arthur snaps.

"Why?" Alfred looks ready to implode, waving his hands around like a concert conductor. "Can you at least give me a good reason?"

"Do I have to have a reason!" Arthur shouts. He proceeds to do something very childish, because he knows it will irritate Alfred. He shoves his tupperware, demolished scone and all, onto the floor, sending crumbs everywhere.

Alfred's expression is enough to know that he's gone too far. His sparkling eyes flatline and the corners of his mouth are tight. For some reason, this is very important to him. Arthur feels his heart skip strangely.

Damn it all.

He should have just said yes.

Alfred turns his back now, addressing the therapist. "I'm going to leave. Sorry for creating a disturbance."

A thrill of irrational fear spikes through Arthur and he almost cries out. Only just managing to bite it back. Once Alfred has left, the therapist looks at him and he knows she can see right through his charade.

"Leave me alone," he snarls, biting his cheek so hard it starts to bleed. If she sticks around much longer, she'll witness the goddamn waterworks. He'd rather put a gun to his head than talk about how he feels right now.

"I will," she says, surprising him. "I don't think you're making a bad decision. Alfred will calm down. Family is very important to Alfred. That's all." She nods and exits without further ado.

Arthur wonders bitterly if he'll be in any fit state to see his family later. He had planned on having the whole day with Alfred to prepare for it. Now, he's driven him away.

He presses his hands nervously against his water-bloated belly, and his eyes begin to water. His breathing comes short and fast, and he knows he's starting to panic again. The doctors warned him against it, but he ignores the pain, shifting around to lay flat on his stomach. The oxygen tubes get crushed but he doesn't care, trying no matter how irrational it is to squish his stomach into submission.

He isn't certain how long he cries, furious with himself. If he had only said yes to Alfred, this wouldn't have happened. Or even if he had asked a nicer way. But no, here he is alone and suffering. At some point, he passes out, nose mashed into the pillow.

Even now, he still sleeps most of the day. Alfred assures him it's a good thing. He's building up his strength again. But the single bed isn't as comfy without Alfred's natural heat.

Several hours later, he wakes to the sensation of someone's hand on his back. It takes him a minute to remember where he is and to realize he's having a hard time breathing. Squashing the oxygen tubes is a bad idea, on second thought. He opens his eyes met with the dull blackness of a face full of pillow.

"Don't move too fast," Alfred's voice, exasperated, but not angry.

Arthur shifts groggily, wondering if they had tried to wake him for lunch. He wouldn't have eaten it, not without Alfred, but it seems fatalistic of them not to try. He starts to push himself upwards, but his arms shake against his weight. Before he can really think about it, he feels Alfred's strong hands on his shoulders, steering him around and into a sitting position.

He can't help but cry out at the stretching sensation around his middle. It aches like hell. Apparently, there had been a reason he wasn't supposed to lay on his stomach.

"I'm sorry," Alfred says, talking slowly. "I'll bet that doesn't feel so good."

Arthur bites his lips, nearly going boneless with relief at the sudden supply of oxygen that whistles through the tubes. He takes a deep breath, forcing himself to meet Alfred's eyes. "I look that bad, huh?" Alfred is acting too kind after their argument for it to be anything else.

"Like a battered soul of the undead who's had an addiction to heroine for a few millennia." Alfred is teasing, and if the words are rough, Alfred's voice makes them gentle. "Your eyes are all red. Do they hurt?"

"A bit," Arthur lies, glad that the blotchiness of his cheeks has at least faded. He doesn't want Alfred to know he's been crying.

Alfred frowns, worried. "Hopefully, you're not getting pink eye or something."

"I think they're just dry," Arthur rubs them self-consciously. "What time is it?"

"Your family are in the front lobby. Does that answer your question?"

Arthur gapes at him in horror. "You didn't-

"No, I haven't seen them. The therapist just let me know. I've been here for awhile, but you were out solid. I didn't want to wake you." Alfred gives him a half-hearted smile. "I'm sorry for losing my temper earlier. That wasn't fair to you. If you don't want me to meet them, that's okay."

Arthur shifts uncomfortably. "It's not... you. I just... my father doesn't really approve of the whole dating another boy thing."

Alfred blinks, "Oh. He's not okay with it at all?"

"In theory," Arthur mumbles, "he doesn't think there's anything wrong with it. But in principle, he doesn't want his son doing it. Do you... understand?" It's harder to explain than he thought it would be. He isn't really sure what makes his father's mind tick, and he honestly has no idea how his father would react to meeting Alfred. He's never dared a test run on any of his previous boyfriends.

"I understand," Alfred murmurs, looking at him thoughtfully. "Well, you'll have to meet my parents sometime. They'll love you."

Arthur swallows. It makes him nervous to think of meeting Alfred's family. Does Alfred really want them to meet his hospital-incarcerated, mental case boyfriend? The one who looks like a famine victim. Or, he glances dispassionately at his stomach, a boy who's managed to get nine months pregnant in two days. Forcefully, he makes himself look back at Alfred before the pressure builds too much. He hates his body, and if he really starts thinking about it, he won't be able to stop.

"I'm sorry to wake you up to such a stressful situation," Alfred comments perceptively. "Anything I can do to make you feel better?"

 _Stay._ Arthur almost says it out loud, but he doesn't think he can handle the conversations about his hospital stay and Alfred at the same time. His family will have questions that he doesn't feel capable of answering without Alfred cropping up on top of that.

"No, I don't think so," Arthur says, wincing when his stomach growls. He doesn't have any right to be hungry, looking so round.

Alfred checks the time on his phone. "You missed lunch, didn't you?"

Arthur looks away. "Alfred-

"What? You want to get rid of the water retention? You have to provide your body with enough nutrients to flush out all the old material. It'll go down on its own if you're eating well." He pauses, his blue eyes sparkling. "Do you _ever_ listen to the therapist when she talks?"

"Once or twice. For the novelty value," Arthur mutters, feeling incredibly warm when Alfred laughs.

"Well, today's been a bit of an off day for both of us," Alfred kneels down to retrieve something on the floor. "But I brought you some more scones since you never did finish the one from this morning."

Arthur considers arguing, but when Alfred pops the top off and begins eating one himself, he forgets to. Snagging himself a blueberry one. Together they finish the container of eight or so. Arthur only eats three, but it's enough to have him feeling stuffed. The only sounds in the room are Alfred's loud smacking and the soft rush of the heater vent. Arthur finds himself dangerously tempted to curl up and go to sleep again. With Alfred sitting beside him all he has to do is incline his head slightly and he can feel Alfred's heartbeat through his t-shirt.

Alfred chuckles. "Oops," he mutters, his voice rich with fondness. "Now, I've gone and worn you out. The therapist will kill me."

Arthur exhales slowly, lifting his head again. "It's useless. No matter what I do, I'm always going to look like I just woke up."

Alfred bites his cheek, reaching out to smooth Arthur's wild hair down, rubbing his fingers against some of the sheet prints on his face. He snickers then, leaning forward so that their noses touch. "Well, it's a good look for you, Arthur Kirkland. You're irresistible." Gently, he presses his lips to Arthur's. It's impossible to ignore the oxygen tube protruding around his upper lip, but Alfred somehow makes it work.

When he pulls back, Arthur wrings his fingers nervously. "Would you stay in the waiting room? Until I'm finished with them? I want to talk to you before I go to sleep."

Alfred grins, "Of course. I'll let the therapist know. If you get too tired, you can tell them to leave any time. Them's the perks of being king of your hospital room."

Arthur snorts half-heartedly, but straightens up. He can at least act like there's nothing wrong. Not that that particular strategy has ever worked before.

* * *

 **Any reviews, follows, and faves much appreciated. If you feel so inclined, check out my profile page for more usuk! (shameless promo)**


	22. Chapter 22

**Hello guys!**

 **Plugging through this story as always. Sorry for the laaaate updates. Someone told me I should do those "In last week's episode..." to remind you all what the hell is going on. But I'm not that nice. :)**

 **And I have an excuse this time!**

 **That's right ya boi's in England, mate. I'm doing a London study abroad this sem. My history nerd self is in heaven. Hit me up if you're in London and wanna talk gay countries. (hey buddy you in london :P)**

 **much love, doze**

* * *

Once Alfred has left, Arthur steels himself, dragging the blankets up around his middle in a fruitless effort to hide as much of himself as possible. He uses a bit of water from his cup on the bedside table to wet his hair down and to rub at the sheet marks on his face. The hospital gown gapes about his chest, so he pulls the collar of it up, wishing he had asked for Alfred's hoodie before he left.

The therapist appears in the doorway, her x-ray eyes scanning over him. "Are you ready?" She asks calmly.

"Ready as I'll ever be." He answers and marvels at how much he sounds like he's in a bad TV drama. Alfred would have definitely taken the opportunity to go, "But Captain, this mission is impossible. All before you have failed."

And he would say, "It's my lot in life, Alfred, to go where others cannot. Besides, no one will miss me."

And then Alfred would say with fake tears in his eyes. "But Arthur we were going to move in together, have a life together. I love-

"Arthur," The therapist draws him out of his thoughts with raised eyebrows. He's getting worse at this. Being in the hospital has left him horribly vulnerable to corny daydreams.

"Sorry."

She shakes her head, smiling. "He's in my office. If you want him at anytime, use the call button. I'm sending them in now."

"Roger," he mutters after he's sure she's left. It's probably some kind of inane defense mechanism he's learned from Alfred. Acting goofy in the face of peril.

Just when he's starting to think that maybe they won't show up after all, they stand in his doorway. His family is dressed like they were planning on attending his funeral. He can't bother to flush the morbidity from his thoughts, not when his mother is in a nice little black number with pearl earrings and his father is wearing starched work clothes, stiff as an old-fashioned pew bench.

They can't even bother to look normal for once. Like they're a normal family. Like all the other normal visitors Arthur sees in the hallway, in their jeans and faded blouses and trainers. With flowers and get-well cards and cookies.

James skulks behind them with a strange expression on his face. He has their father's dark brown eyes coupled with some distant relative's long lost curly red hair. His freckles stand out starkly against his skin. For once, Arthur can't guess what he might be thinking. Dressed nice in a button up and khakis, no cleats or football jersey in sight.

"I'm sorry," Arthur says, feeling woefully unimpressive in his hospital gown. "I just woke up."

"Oh teddy bear," his mother's voice cracks and he doesn't have to see her face to know she's begun to cry. He stares hard at his blankets and his water-bloated belly, wishing he could sink into the next dimension. Hating her for making him feel guilty and hating himself for not caring about her pain.

"Well, y-you look like you've gained some weight somewhere at least," James says stupidly, trying to pacify their mother.

Arthur flinches, biting back a curse word. All at once, he feels like laying on his stomach again or maybe taking a chainsaw and cutting off the extra bits. He hates that Alfred convinced him to take those scones.

"Yes, I've gotten good and fat now. You shouldn't have to worry," he says bitterly. "I'll find a way to pay you back for this, father. I know you don't like wasting money on my stupidity."

His mother chokes on her sob, and his father growls, "That's enough, Arthur. We've come to have a civil conversation." He leads her to a chair, taking a seat. James stands behind them shifting from foot to foot.

His father's heavy brown eyes are like weights. Arthur can only hold them for so long before he looks away again.

"What did you want to talk about?" He asks, feeling his lip curl upwards in a sneer. "You never wanted to talk before."

"Arthur, what's wrong?" It's his mother that asks, looking perfectly miserable. Arthur can't imagine what she must see when she looks at him. He hasn't looked in a mirror in so long, but he doubts they would see the same thing even then.

"I can't imagine what you mean." It dawns on him slowly that he can't have a real conversation with them. Not like this.

"Arthur," his father says angrily.

"What?" He spits back. "What did you expect me to say? I don't want to be here. I didn't have a choice in the matter. So you ask me what's wrong. I haven't the foggiest. Ask the doctor."

James's brown eyes go huge, his pale face almost blue. "Artie, you've got anorexia. That's what they told us. You know that, right?"

Anorexia. Arthur grinds his teeth together. Even Alfred hasn't used the word. Sure, the therapist has said it, but she's realized quickly how much he hates it. He's not insane. He doesn't have a mental disorder. Sometimes he eats too little. By now, he's willing to admit that. But that's all.

"Yes, and you've got an IQ lower than thirty, James." Arthur growls. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't walk around throwing names at me for the hell of it. Names you know nothing about."

Rather than get angry, James looks horrified. He meets their father's eyes in confusion.

"If you just came here to shout at me, then I'll ask you to leave," Arthur continues, glaring. "Alfred is already helping me g-gai... helping me do what I need to do to get out of here. I'll do my best with the bill after I graduate. I won't be a burden much longer."

"Alfred?" His mother asks and Arthur's heart comes to a crashing halt.

"We agreed to his involvement when Arthur was unconscious, remember?" His father says barely audible. Arthur blinks. He had forgotten they'd agreed to it.

"Yes, but I thought that was only for the first few days. I didn't realize..."

His father looks at Arthur. "You realize why you're here."

It isn't a question. Arthur scowls and open his mouth.

"I'm not finished speaking," His father's eyes grow hard. "You need to gain weight, Arthur. It isn't healthy for you to be so thin. The reason your heart stopped was because you were unhealthy."

Arthur flinches violently, crossing his arms. "No, it was because I got drunk on the plane and took medication at the same time."

"Medication that wasn't prescribed to you."

Arthur blinks, feeling his mouth go dry. "I-It was anxiety medication. I've had it prescribed before. Just-

"It wasn't your prescription, and it only exacerbated your problem."

"If you thought I had a problem why didn't you say anything over Christmas?" Arthur snarls.

His father actually looks away. "We weren't planning on letting you return for the spring semester because we suspected something was going on. You'll have to forgive me that I didn't know what to say. As it is, I'm sorry the whole family was there like that. I meant to look by myself but the others were already down waiting to open presents. I realize that... was uncomfortable for you. I can't be angry at you for running away."

"Uncomfortable?" Arthur almost laughs, feeling redhot rage flow through his veins. "That's certainly one way to put it, isn't it? Showing off your scrawny son to all our relatives so that they can laugh too! It's a riot, father. It really is. I can't believe you thought you could make me miss the spring semester to stay in your godforsaken mansion. You think I ran away? I left. For good. I don't want anything to do with you."

"Arthur!" His mother and James say at the same time.

But he laughs. "Why so concerned all of a sudden? Was I not clear enough when I said I wanted to study in Washington? I don't belong. I never have. So leave me to get a degree I can never get a job with and leave me to have all the goddamn orgies I want to! Heaven only knows what you think I've been doing all these years."

"Arthur-

"And don't pay for any of it! Leave me to debt! It'd be a fucking blessing. I don't want your money. Or your help."

"Why do you hate us?" His mother finally breaks through in a loud voice. Her eyes are still suspiciously watery, but her jaw is tight. "What have I ever done to make you think I don't love you?"

"Nothing," Arthur spits, feeling the fire go as quickly as it had come. "You never did anything."

Arthur tries to swallow, but he feels the lump in his throat. "Leave." He murmurs. He'd rather live through the whole plane incident again than let them see him cry now. But they aren't moving and he begins to doubt his powers as high king of the hospital room. His chest tightens with panic. The heart monitor speeds up. But he doesn't have it in him to be angry. Not anymore.

He fumbles for the call button, breathing raggedly.

They're silent before him, frozen. He's never given his father the pleasure of seeing him cry. As a young London delinquent, he'd rather have pulled out every single one of his toenails.

At first he fights to hold them back, clinging to his strong charade. His hands shake in his lap, resting against his rounded belly and the slight dent in the covers where the feeding tube can be connected.

"Hey, Art-" Alfred halts in his tracks, looking shocked to see Arthur's family still in the room.

He's nothing like them in that moment. Sesame Street hoodie, Underarmour basketball shorts, Nike hightops. A Texas Rangers ballcap on backwards. He holds a small container of Dip' n Dots from the vending machine down the hall. His family are sitting like they have boards glued to their backs. Even James is rigid.

But Alfred slouches familiarly in the doorway, spoon in his mouth. The pop of his blue eyes is almost like a photograph, like he accidentally walked into another universe, where someone as brightly colored and comical as him was never supposed to exist.

Alfred wrinkles his nose nervously. "Damn, I shouldnta run here. Too soon?"

He's such a dweeb. Arthur can't stop the tears anymore, and Alfred rushes forward anyway. His apologies trailing after him. "Aww, Arthur, I'm sorry. I said I wouldn't meet them. Look we won't talk at all. I didn't realize they hadn't left yet. I thought you wanted to see me."

He does want to see Alfred. Alfred's sticky cold icecream fingers brush back his hair. His warm sweet breath tickles against Arthur's cheeks. His tears seem silly, even to him.

"I'll pretend I don't see them," Alfred whispers loudly. "You think that'll work?"

"You're an i-idiot." Arthur rolls his eyes weakly.

"Oh, I can pretend I don't speak English." Alfred cocks his head to the side. "Uh, Watashi, watashi wa Alfred desu. Eigo wo hanashimasen."

"It's too late for that." Arthur clears his throat, wiping at his cheeks.

"Well, damn," Alfred tilts his head back. "I don't think I have any more ideas. Would you like me to jump out the window?"

"How about... how about you just stay in bed with me?" Arthur says and Alfred smiles.

"And this is why you're the brains of the operation." Before Arthur can stop him, he leans forward and pecks him on the lips. He expects to feel some embarrassment for Alfred's blatant affection, but all he feels is relief. His family may be the type to keep affection behind closed doors, but it's nice to know that Alfred doesn't care who sees.

Alfred sets the bowl of ice cream on Arthur's lap, wiping his hands on his shorts. "I'm Alfred." He holds out his hand to Arthur's father. "Nice to meet you."

For a horrifying second, his father doesn't move, but then he reaches forward and shakes Alfred's sticky hand. "Ralph Kirkland. This is my wife, Mary and my son, James. You already know Arthur."

"I do." Alfred beams easily, not bothered by their stiffness. Arthur can see his mother and James are just now working out who Alfred really is. "I've been looking forward to meeting you for awhile."

"Yes, Arthur has mentioned you."

Arthur flinches, but Alfred only laughs. "I'm sure you've heard only the worst parts. I'm a responsible kid, I swear. I go to the culinary school near the university. I plan to be a chef."

"A chef?" The irony certainly isn't lost on them, sitting in a hospital with their anorexic son who's in love with a chef.

"Yep," Alfred says, reclaiming his ice cream bowl. "Arthur complains a lot, but I know he likes my cooking."

Arthur scowls. "I like your cooking just about as much as I like the bed pan."

"Arthur!" His mother is horrified. She looks apologetically at Alfred, who laughs again.

"Don't worry, Mrs. Kirkland. Arthur likes the bed pan a lot. It's that or wet the sheets." Alfred raises an eyebrow at Arthur challengingly, as if to ask if he really wants to play this game.

Despite himself, Arthur starts to grin, that unabashed look he gets from spending too much time with Alfred. Then James chimes in and ruins it.

"Your Arthur's boyfriend?"

The words hang in the air and sink into nothing before Alfred replies. His brilliant blue eyes flicker over the lot of them, coming to rest on Arthur's father. "I am, yeah." He straightens up as if daring any of them to make an issue of it. "That's not important right now, though."

"It seems serious." Arthur's mother comments. "It must be important."

"Oh, it is important," Alfred says. "Just not right this minute. I'd like to talk with you about how I love your son sometime. Maybe over dinner? But for now, I think you want to know about Arthur." How Alfred seems to know their discussion had gone to shit, Arthur has no clue.

Getting comfortable, Alfred leans back and puts an arm around him. Stirring his ice cream around. "Do you have any questions?"  
Ordinarily, Arthur would be angry that Alfred has officially taken over his family discussion. But with Alfred warm against his side, he only lays his head down and inspects Alfred's ice cream.

"Did you tell Arthur to come back to America?"

Arthur blinks in surprise at the vitriol in his father's voice. He opens his mouth angrily, but Alfred shushes him with a kiss to the head.

"No, I didn't." Alfred answers honestly. "I didn't try to dissuade him from coming back though. I wanted him here. I was sad that he couldn't spend Christmas with me. In fairness, I thought you were okay with it and I didn't know he was that sick."

"Was it your Xanax?"

Alfred stares at nothing for a long time, before nodding. "Yes, it was my prescription."

Arthur shifts to look at him in surprise. He had assumed it was Alfred's roommate's. "You have anxiety?"

Alfred wrinkles his nose like he does when he doesn't want to talk about something. "For awhile now."

"And you knew he took it?" Arthur's father continues.

"Of course, he didn't." Arthur snaps. "I stole it."

"I thought he might have." Alfred doesn't look at him, playing intently with the ice cream spoon.

"And you didn't say anything?" Arthur's father demands.

"No, I... I figured if he had taken it... well, it sounds fucking stupid now, but I thought he needed it more than I did. I could easily get another bottle." Alfred lowers his head. "I was wrong. I regret it."

"If he hadn't had the medicine, he wouldn't've..." James doesn't finish the sentence, but he doesn't need to.

Arthur tries to find the words, but his mind is utterly blank. Alfred knew that he took the medicine?

"Why didn't you say anything?" His father asks. He just asked this question, but Alfred hears a different meaning this time.

"I don't know." Alfred crosses and then uncrosses his fingers. "I knew there was something wrong. I didn't know what it was, and sometimes... I felt like I was imagining it. I guess I just hoped that if there was something wrong Arthur would tell me. That didn't work out very well." He forces a harsh chuckle, but his eyes are flat.

"How could _you_ not know something was wrong?" James asks angrily. "I mean, don't you and he..."

Arthur scowls, finding his words abruptly. "Fuck? Is that what you mean to say? Why don't you fucking mind your own business, you nosy shithead?"

"Arthur!" His mother scowls fiercely at his language, but this time she doesn't look at his father. She looks at Alfred. Arthur is still trying to understand what to make of that when the conversation continues.

"I don't want to talk about that," Alfred says much more calmly than Arthur would ever expect. He takes a bite of his ice cream. "With all due respect, it's none of your business what Arthur and I do."

Arthur's father says nothing for awhile, his brown eyes unreadable. "How long will he be here?"

"That's up to him," Alfred says.

"What do you mean?"

"He needs to gain more weight to be released."

"Well, it looks like he's packed on nearly a stone! I can't see how much more they want from him. Though his arms still look like-"

"Ralph," His mother interrupts, probably seeing the look on Arthur's face. He hadn't been able to stop himself from flinching, crossing his arms over his middle. Alfred blinks slowly, realizing that he hasn't explained.

"That's not weight," Alfred says. "It's water. Arthur..." He sighs heavily. "Arthur's really sick, okay? He's a tough guy, but even he can only go so long without giving his body what it needs." Alfred seems to know how uncomfortable this topic is for him, as he gently rubs at Arthur's back. "Arthur's been eating regularly, and his body is using those nutrients to repair and replace all the old cells that it couldn't while he was... starving himself. One of the side effects is water retention, which is basically swelling like when you twist your ankle. It'll go away. In fact, it should very soon." He looks at Arthur directly, his blue eyes gentle.

"Well, I suppose that explains it," Arthur's father murmurs. "I had wondered why he hasn't got any weight on his arms and chest."

Arthur can't help but flinch again, but he can feel Alfred's sympathy. It keeps him from getting worked up.

"How much weight does he have to put on?"

This time Alfred doesn't answer the question, not immediately. "Arthur," he says calmly. "Is it okay if I talk about this? Or would you rather I didn't?"

Arthur's first reaction is to say no. His weight is such a private matter. He doesn't want his bloody parents and brother of all people prying. At the same time, somewhere in the back of his mind he feels like they have a right to know. They are still, no matter what, the ones footing his bills. He hates it, loathes it. But it's true. He ignores the small part of him that hopes they'll take pity on him. Maybe if they hear the numbers, they'll try to understand.

He swallows, looking uncertainly at Alfred. "You can talk about it," he says in barely more than a whisper. "Just don't... Just please be careful about it." He flinches at the tone of his voice. He sounds like such a wuss.

His family is already looking at him strangely and they haven't even heard the facts yet. Alfred presses a kiss to his head.

"Here's the thing." Alfred begins matter-o-factly. "Arthur only needs to gain twelve more pounds to be released from the hospital. He's gained some weight since he's been here and isn't in as critical condition. Although," Alfred bites his lip. "He's still severely underweight. They would never release him right now, but they're encouraged by his progress."

"How much does he weigh?" His father asks, looking sternly at Alfred. Strangely, Arthur reflects that it's his father's business face. He's taking in the facts, deciding what to do with them.

Alfred bites his lip, looking reluctant to say. "98." As soon as he says it, the atmosphere in the room changes. James and his mother always wear their emotions on their sleeves, but it's his father that looks the most caught off guard.

"98 _pounds_?" He asks softly. "Christ, I think Peter weighs that much."

Alfred says nothing, rubbing calming circles into Arthur's back. His ice cream is melting, but he doesn't seem to notice.

"And you said that's after he gained weight here? What did he weigh before?"

Alfred doesn't get upset. "Around 83."

The silence is deafening. Arthur shifts, searching for something to distract himself. It isn't as awful as he thought. It had been worse when he had to tell Alfred. Now Alfred is doing all the hard work. He's glad he called Alfred in.

"110 pounds?"

Alfred nods. "For him to be released. That's still very underweight, but they don't think he'll keel over." He butts Arthur's head with his own teasingly. "Ultimately, they want to get him up to 140. He's not very tall, so he doesn't need to weigh that much. 140 is our long term goal."

"He can't live by himself." His mother whispers.

Arthur scowls, causing Alfred to smile.

"Yeah, I know that, Mrs. Kirkland. I've... already coordinated with the therapist on this. She agrees. Arthur will move in with me."

Arthur flushes, looking down at his hands. He can't begin to say how happy those words make him. Living in a house with Alfred, sleeping in the same bed, finally being able to give Alfred a good relationship. He wants so badly to give back, just a little bit. All this time Alfred has been so wonderful to him, but he wants to make Alfred feel amazing too.

"Absolutely not." It takes Arthur's father a minute to find his voice. "The second he's released from this hospital, he's on a flight back to London. Traveling across the bloody globe has done him no good whatsoever. He's coming home."

In retrospect, Arthur isn't surprised. It doesn't stop him from getting angry. "I have school if you've forgotten, father. Just because you don't like the fact that I have a boyfriend doesn't mean you get to dictate where I stay. I have a student visa. I'm staying here."

"It'll be bloody summer by the time you're out of here, Arthur. Don't pretend." His father tells him coldly. "You will come home where you can be taken care of properly. I'm certain part of the reason you've developed this problem in the first place is spending so long on your own."

"I won't be on my own!" Arthur blows up.

"Yes, and I should be comforted by the fact you're staying with your boyfriend. Listen, here, I wouldn't be anymore comfortable with it if Henry had anorexia and tried to tell me he's staying with his girlfriend. You're coming home, Arthur. That's final."

Arthur laughs, sneering. "Perhaps it would be final if I were a minor. I'm staying. You can't make me leave."

His father's eyes are rock hard now, but Arthur feels untouchable. They can agree or not. It doesn't matter.

"May I butt in?" Alfred asks lightly, receiving glares from both. "I know you may not be comfortable with this, Mr. Kirkland. I understand that. You don't know me very well. But... Arthur is very important to me. I've memorized his calorie calendar." He pulls out a rumpled bit of paper and hands it to Arthur's mother. "I've taken the time to design him a meal plan from scratch since he doesn't like the hospital food. I'm working on one for after he gets out of the hospital that'll give him some flexibility, that way he can always eat what he wants to. I just want you to know that I'm taking this very seriously, and if... if Arthur and I ever have a falling out, I swear to you I won't let it influence the way I treat him. I'll be the first to call you and let you know. I just want the best for him. I love him."

"That's all good and fine, Alfred." Arthur's father says sounding exhausted. "But you're young and it's highly likely you'll stop loving him at some point. This isn't a way to start a normal or healthy relationship. For... whatever reason, Arthur seems very attached to you. It would be best to get this over with quickly, before you change your mind."

Alfred gapes, his perfect features thrown into disarray. He glances at Arthur, expecting some kind of response. But for once, his father's worries mirror his own. Of course, he would never leave Alfred in a million years, but his "sickness", his hospital stay... Sometimes it seems like only a matter of time before Alfred will crack.

"You're kidding, right?" Alfred says and Arthur hears the tension. He's about to get angry. "How can you say that to me? When I was the only one here for him for so long? Oh he seems attached to me, does he? Do you think that happened overnight? I love your son, Mr. Kirkland. You don't know the half of what's been going on here. I don't think you realize how serious this is. He could have died and he still could! Arthur's an amazing guy, who doesn't deserve this. And maybe I don't deserve him, but I'm going to do my best to make him happy again. Because he sure as hell wasn't happy when I met him."

"Ralph," Arthur's mother says quietly, interrupting him before he can respond. "Look at this." She holds out the calorie calendar that Alfred had given her.

It's covered in Alfred's cramped writing, every single box blossoming with ideas and ingredients. The margins are filled with doodles and question marks and addition problems. At the bottom, Alfred has scrawled a happy face with a thumbs-up with the ever-changing number of days that Arthur has managed to stay on schedule. It had been getting big, until today's argument.

"Back to zero then," He mutters and Alfred snorts.

"I'm willing to fudge the number. Since today was partially my fault."

"Partially?" Arthur challenges around a yawn, dropping his head to Alfred's chest. His father and mother are busy reading, but James watches them curiously.

Alfred smiles gently. "It's getting late. You're tired."

"I'm always tired." Arthur grouses, though he doesn't mind it so much with Alfred here.

"Sleep then. I'll take care of this."

Arthur blinks. "I don't want you to... be talked out of anything."

"Trust me, Arthur. That's not likely to happen," Alfred laughs. "Get some sleep. I'll wake you up before I leave."

"Do you have to leave?" Arthur says, no longer caring who hears him.

"Unfortunately, yes. All the more reason to get those last 12 points and be out of here, right? Think about it: a nice, big, warm bed. We can jack the heater up as high as you want. You'll never have to be cold. There's a TV with actual channels. The sheets are soft and you can wear pajama pants and hoodies all day long."

"Oh, Alfred, keep talking dirty to me." By now, he knows his parents must be listening. But they haven't interrupted.

Alfred snorts, rubbing at the hair near the nape of his neck, putting him to sleep. "There are doors that lock. Privacy is a plus. My tub is huge and the hot water works. There's a bookshelf that desperately needs filling. I'll need your help for that and uhh... there's me." He says childishly, but his voice is irrevocably warm.

"The best part of it all," Arthur mumbles, failing at sarcasm.


End file.
